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Poem

Some kind of celebrity I guess, in print,
faceless at work,
seldom seen at home--
He writes the story of his life and
every chapter is the same; he is the lucky man
who has two jobs and can afford
to lay away his bed and wearily
to plan or hope, some far-off day
to have a good night's sleep.

That is too much to think about
for most of his compadres who
must be content with only possibilities
that all their hungry children might 
begin the day with breakfast found
at school, and not enough at home.
Yes, certainly, if you and I
do not insist on voting taxes down.

The little fellow couldn't feel
much love from them, when politicians pool
their picayune philosophies to seal
the voting booths against a fraud
that they alone decide to blame,
and then conspire to make reality.
He doesn't count; he doesn't know
the proper tricks to play the game

He's just a little guy.
He doesn't make much noise.
He doesn't nag you with a presumed power,
or threaten to make you disappear.
He cannot flaunt his intellect
or flout your laws with technicalities.
He doesn't understand
how clothing makes the man.
He's just a less-than-ordinary guy.
Soft upon the earth he walks,
past your bright new car.
But can you tell why the ground,
its insight stored from history,
will tremble there, 
beneath his feet?
        ~

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