An Uphill Battle on the Home-Front
(Any resemblance between the subjects of this poem and any lying-around living or dead, whether related to me or a part of the masses, is purely in your imagination.)
The Second Rant in 24 Hours
I wrote a review. Can I read it to you?
And the book. Do you want to read it?
How many pages does it have?
Eff!
237
No cartoons, though
for the likes of you.
Pages?
Well, I don’t have a lot of time, you know.
And besides, what’s for lunch?
I don’t have the time to answer that question.
It is not an important question.
The important question is whether –
some time in the far distant future —
How old are you?
You get bumped off by corporate interests
who have taken over medical care in this fine country of ours
in a time when said corporate interests have made a fine mincemeat —
in good season you will have to admit —
of disposable people such as ourselves
and you want to know
how many pages it takes to tell that story
and what we are having for lunch?
Ah, he says, I see I have been careless in my admiration of your fine work.
Let me explain, if you can ignore the sounds of my empty stomach.
It isn’t as bad as it sounds, he says.
How old did you say you are? I ask.
Do I have to listen to pensioners such as yourself
whose only goal is to suck the dollars out of young people’s wallets
to preserve your ancient bones?
Lunch, he says,
I want my lunch.
