Middle Class Mortality
Young man full of it,
at night
After a few,
that was me.
Did I drink…
too much?
Could I see…
what was coming?
I cycle the highway
Salvation Army clothes
Tattering in the wind
bent wheels clacking
Loose spokes, rusted fender,
what happened to my Lycra shorts?
I work at Wal-Mart
my Phd in Philosophy
I shoeshine on Wall Street
loose teeth still crooked,
my middle class smile.
“Hey,” I say, to the pinstriped
billionaire,
“Your diamond is bigger
than my tumor!”
He shifts in his seat.
(Not my shoe-stand anyway.)
Next time, I bring ropes,
tie ‘em in.
Poor bastards with their slick suits and glitzy cars
can’t see what I see.
I calculate equations!
Simple math that I do not understand.
Oh, I wish I were a financier!
I clatter to my tent
pitched at the bottom
of the embankment
beneath the blinking sign:
Citizen’s Bank.
Clean ammonia air I breath
listening to insects
Killing mosquitoes on my arm
I smear “their” blood.
If I wake,
I will hatch a plan
To revive my assets
Just think… think…
Oh heavenly God, please! please!
In my next life,
Let me be
A financier!
Jeffrey Penn May 2011
