The Men To My Left

Oh these tragedies
You cry
Wringing your smooth hands
The cuticles trimmed

Those poor women
How dreadful
It’s our involvement
In the politics of others
The lives of others
Our greed and thirst for oil
You wail

Ours?
Not mine

And you pace
Back and forth
A tortured soul
With a cleanly shaved jaw
and steely eyes the smile won’t reach

Those poor women
While you fold your paper
Lean back
And breathe in your coffee

And a silent scream
The scream of knowing
Sits like a bullet
Resting on my tongue

Own it I scream
Own it
And then I see
You already do
And you’re trading it
Every day

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