Friday, January 13, 2017

This Poem Is A Lie

This poem is a lie;
nothing about it rings true,
neither meter nor rhyme.

I walked a mile in my own shoes
today. Am I free now to judge
this poet as a bastard?
There. I said it.
Someone had to.

Standing on the corner
of Wabash and Randolph,
she shouts,
Is anyone listening?!
No one is, of course, until
she shouts.
Now they are
warily eying her
every move,
wondering,
waiting,
moving past quickly.

Our poet friend
drops a coin into her cup,
lifts his eyes to meet hers
as if his gaze were enough
to fix her. She scowls and mouths
God bless you.
He thinks, Fuck you!
then chastises himself
for his whiteness,
her blackness,
his privilege,
her impoverishment,
his relative sanity,
her relative madness.

Relative to what,
one might ask.

Relative to one another?
Absurd. In what way do they relate?

Relative to an accepted norm?
Again. What is normal?

Relative to oneself?
That, my friend,
may be true.

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