Top Floor

It's quiet here. The cops have come.
They clubbed away the rabble rousers.
Now, there's no one in the street
Except the people taking trash. The ball
Is on, and we will go. That funny little
Guy, whose accent makes him hard to
Understand, has brought our breakfasts
To the door. Let's eat them quickly, then
Go out. I'd like to buy a nicer watch.
I need to call the guy who calls the
Congressmen to cut our taxes. Dear,
The sun is up and bright. The world
Turns and we are rich, and all the cops,
And all the people we have paid to
Say to others all is as it ought to be
Have done their jobs. The rabble rousers
And the rabble sit somewhere, inside
Their hovels, doubly beaten, leaving us
To flourish. I so love the quiet here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2011-02-19 at 14:55

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text