Stop and think for a moment,
Abandon superfluous encumbrance.
Up the mountain, through the
Penumbra, clarity unobscured.
A dark smokestack belches filth
Into a resigned sky. Trudging,
Servile to instinct and unchecked
Impulse. Clear away the dust.
It’s always the
Same story:
Something happens
And the parents
Stand by muttering
That they never
Saw it coming,
At once absolving
Themselves of any
Responsibility and
Avoiding having to
Admit they were
Part of the mess.
He doesn’t feel good
About himself, hasn’t
Come to grips with
Some, if not all, of
The questions that
Keep him from sleeping.
He attaches himself
To promised comfort,
Quells his doubts
By pressuring others
To do the same,
Stumbling together in
Willful ignorance,
Unopened eyes,
Closed hearts.
Tension-filled gait,
Taught face,
Clutching phone,
Walking determinedly
Toward unseen goal.
One look away from
Umbrage.
One comment away from
Explosion.
One step away from
Meltdown.
Keep it together,
Barely.
A jabbering group of
Immaculately appointed
Tourists steps off
The luxury coach that’s
Carted them through
The objectionable parts
Of the city to the
Retail village built
For just this purpose,
Where unsmiling locals
Wearing fake costumes
Peddle inauthentic wares
To the delight of visitors
Who couldn’t care less
About their plight,
How phony this all is,
As they steal another
Soul through their cameras.
At the supermarket,
Averting her eyes,
Many recognize
What’s going on,
She wishes they didn’t.
Struggling through the day,
Not yet in a place
Where she believes
In her worth,
That she doesn’t
Deserve this.
Lashing out with great
Vigor and ferocity, memories
Kept covered by a thin
Layer of civility exposed at
The slightest scratch.
Unconscious reactions to
Perceived slights from all
Directions, the outrage of
Memories not forgotten,
Awakened, unaddressed,
Unknown, a plume of
Panic and bewilderment.
He’s a crusader
With deep convictions,
A man of integrity
Who can always
Be counted on to
Share some wise advice.
He prides himself
On being a person of
Honor and moderation,
Steadfast purveyor of
Only common-sense views,
Which is why he
Is fervently against
Income redistribution,
At least the kind
That helps the poor.
A different type of energy,
One that comes from distant
Wounds, inflicted by monsters
Who were supposed to protect
Them, confidence betrayed,
A never-healing sore oozing
Mistrust, anger, pain directed
At everyone, for any reason,
For no reason other than it
Has never been acknowledged
Or dealt with so it can go
Away, recede into memory,
Leaving in its place,
Softness, kindness, wholeness,
Compassion, understanding.
Nothing much going on,
Like every other day.
She remembers when life
Felt full of promise,
When she would wake up
And things mattered,
The excitement of
What was to come,
The joy in even the
Smallest occurrences,
Barely a memory now,
Replaced by a void.