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Poem

“We have no milk,”
you speak quietly
in a tone reminiscent 
of another’s observation
that wine had run out
at a wedding feast.
Miraculous transformation
of wine or milk
from pitchers of water
seemingly absent from
the church job description
of educator and
director of parish music,
a deficit, in proportion
to the yearly salary of
nine thousand dollars 
for seven days work
each week with two 
weeks off for good behavior.

As there is no blood-letting
from turnips, there is
no milk-letting from music.
Your milk-filled breasts
have not enough milk
for baby and cereal for
two growing boys
at the table. Evenings
liqour store clerking and
weddings and funerals
cannot fill both
refrigerator and bellies.

Nine thousand dollars,
before government
expenses and other
deductions, does not
provide well for a
family of five.
Well below the income
for a family of four,
much less five,
no food shelves yet
conceived for the
impoverished and
hungry. Reaganomics
mock the poor
who fight for the
crumbs from the 
richman’s table. 
Trickle down’s
empty promises stab
visciously at the
hunger-panged 
stomachs of the poor.

The class of ‘70
golden ring, the weight
far too heavy
for a musician’s right
hand, would decorate
finer the hand of
another man.  Perhaps,
remolten into glimmering
shimmering light,
the golden reshaped
circlet might hang
from a chain 
adorning the neck 
of some young woman. 
The jeweler’s eye
gauges carefully
its worth, twenty 
dollars, no more
no less, twenty 
dollars  it is.
There will be milk
and bread on
the table for
another week.
© 2015, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

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