Economies for Cadavers
Can the textile, woven soft,
Wrapped round cushions, made for traded monies,
Hold through wear and treads of bones, spent by those to be beneath me?
What is made for you, me and we--
Rather than paper or liquidation--
Are the metals melded to be,
Or just to briefly bear bonds and taxation?
As labor makes the product flows,
Intended obsolescence,
Avoids the lows so currency grows:
Quintessence of market effervescence.
I cannot sell, I cannot trade, I cannot broker deals from stacked bureaus,
I'd rather speak, I'd rather guide, or find new ways for politburo.
It seem to me we cannot make, cannot trade, we cannot broker deals 'tween entity,
We'd rather take, we'd rather give, or find new ways to hide, identity.
I've walked 'tween worlds of penury and plenty,
Driven by motives irrelevant to cash,
Unlike the few who use the worlds they empty,
Sucking in to spit out remaining trash.
I've walked 'tween worlds both nescient and perspicacious,
Finding and shining lights on shadow realms,
The first was full but the second spacious,
And now the former overwhelms.
Until the textile, woven soft,
Wrapped round cushions are made for bums,
They'll never bear the wear and tread of bottoms' bones;
And for cadavers counted and minted sums.
Copyright ©
B.J. Fitz
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