A Shitty Everyman

It's late. Now, here I am again, misfortune's
Latest refugee, not one who's fleeing killers,
Corporations, armed enforcers of a status quo
Which couldn't find a place for me. I am,
Instead, the wretch you know I've always been,
The one who could have found a job,
And hung on, as so many do, inside his
Cubicle, just idly strolling through the Internet,
A purchaser of useless things, a devotee
Of unexamined dogmas, someone at the far
End of the conference table who agrees
With almost everything, but can't articulate
What he believes, a shitty Everyman, but I
Became a refugee because you are the Promised
Land. My slippery hands have led me
To let go of dogmas. Now, I bow to you
And beg. I need a meal, but more than that,
I wish that you'd provide me with a reason
To keep living, to keep coming back to you.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 63 times
Written on 2019-10-25 at 03:06

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poetic pilgrim The PoetBay support member heart!
i like your ways of building sentence
i think they are very original
very laryesque

Reading this poem made me realize how day by day I'm heading toward being a shitty everyman: a job and a cubicle, mindlessly surfing the Internet and agreeing what everyone says in the meeting.