The Little Guy

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? ~