So shoot us or feed us, Big Man. We are very tired. Feed us or kill us quickly–or else what good are you?
The Crying For A Vision
A man muddied, clothes torn
sits alone in a dark alley with shards
of glass around and stomach denied wine
drifting from an open dumpster. The man
rises to his feet, then empties onto
the sidewalk. He slowly drags one leg
after the other, passing buildings, each with
boards in place where windows used
to stand. He stops and passes through
the space between two factories. He enters
the first from the back exit. The man
reaches the foot of some steps, he grabs
the hand rail and pulls himself up a floor.
He stares at the rotted door with a tag
that reflects his name. –Five years earlier,
the man types, fingers rapidly pushing
buttons, at a computer in his office. He sends
an E-mail to the president of the company,
outlining, point for point, faults created
by a slight downfall in the stock market.
The man, hoping the leaders, like FDR,
can prepare them to prevent a major loss
of jobs. The president reads the message
like a tip from his business manager,
and spreads the word to other top stock
holders.– The man pulls a soiled newspaper
out from under his shirt and focuses
on a picture of the company’s former leaders
sitting around a table, drinking warm
coffee with the president of the U.S.
I wrote this for a class in 2004 and is a part of bigger poem titled democracy.