Rich Men Suck
Sheep without shepherd,
Raw thread sans loom…
O, rich white man, is that how you see us?
As ants scurrying to gather your crumbs?
Does this vision strengthen your egos?
Give me your hands,
your fingertips, softer than mine –
pushing paper and counting money all day.
Opalescent nails, polished and perfect.
(I can’t afford a manicure, sorry if I offend.)
In your mind, you picture
raw, thirsting power.
A lion’s heart with the speed of an elk.
The virility of a man’s man (who doesn’t really NEED the Viagra).
But I’ve spied you in the office corridor,
side-glancing in the gilt mirror,
yearning to look like Don Draper.
Real power needn’t preen
nor reassure itself.
Real power was in the humanity you left behind
when you bought your first pair of Guccis.
Weirdos In Living Color
Pondering life, parsing a Wordle
at my local locally owned café
Out the window, saw a weirdo
Headed over Starbucks way
Reet suit, silk tie, plus a gadget
dangled on his ear, he talked to it
Rhythm on the street was financial
I could tell – he walked to it
People in hats lug large boxes
with handles they clutch tight as breath
Talking so fast ‘bout Wall Street, K Street
Talking fast as a dealer on Meth
Where’re they going? What’s the rush?
Why is Rush a god and God replaced
by Sunday crosswords, fancy brunch
What’s the point of all their haste?
I’m content with three hots and a cot
Better still, a rabbit-eared TV
Come watch parades of Armani lemmings
dive off a cliff so willingly
© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil