Shamed Into Silence

Under these, next-best of circumstances, food
On the table, shelter from cold, and cars, and
Clothes, and children, in good health, asleep,
The trappings middle-class affluence, I make,
Of petty complaints, an art. Oh, I wish I was
Somewhere the weather was warm, and that
She, who so moves me, could be with me now,
That the redneck hordes would find socks in
Their mouths, and that all would be right.
Isn't all almost right, as things are, in our
Tawdry, synthetic utopia?

Flies have a feast on the streets where it's
Warm, and the bodies decay by the thousands.
They bloat and they stink, but there's no way
To make them go. All the buildings have
Fallen. The roads are cracked, and the
Doctors (who lived) and the cops have
Retreated to paw through the rubble of
Their own homes. The food has been eaten.
Their children, somewhere in the dark, have
Been moaning. When they stop, it isn't because
They have gone to sleep. Such circumstances,
The worst that can be, aren't conducive to art.
They bring shame to the affluent.
I must surrender my pen.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 44 times
Written on 2010-01-16 at 13:06

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