Life has eyes
grim
as an oblivious “Jesus T-shirt”
swimming
slum-stricken alleys of Chicago,
uncompassionate
as a counterfeit “Jesus loves you”
spoken
to a homeless paraplegic in winter.
Am I wealthy?
Life throws my ‘wealthy’ ass
into an obscure trudge
for horrifically shaded happiness.
Am I poor?
Marching among the poor,
I wear my T-shirt,
regurgitate
my programmed phrases,
then
return to my mansion
and wish I understood
what I had said.
A life of pain
has bound society’s vocal chords:
“Welcome to the real world.”