Put Upon, #136

No, not the One
on the cross. How
did he suffer? His place,
his seat on the right-hand
of God assured. That’s
not bravery,
when you can see
where the tracks
and the train leads,
the twists and the turns,
the wreck, and what
happens next
to the one sitting
in your seat. No,
so much more than
anyone, I have been
put upon by this world,
in ways I can not
explain, in ways you
simply could not see.
No one has been
put upon quite like me.
Every good choice
I have made
in my good
and gracious heart
has increased
the currents
against me, until
a tsunami rolls in
on the shores
of my being, washing
over me. And what
of those victims
of water, pshaw?
A death noble
and natural while I
am forced to chow
down on flavors
artificial, on poisons
slow acting. Oh,
if death would come
for me, in such
a sudden way,
pain free. How I
have been put upon,
no one has been
put upon quite like
me. And what
of the, so-called
victims of slaughter,
slow to die at the hands
of soldiers, compatriots
and outsiders. How
they have suffered?
Coddled in the whimpers
and boo-hoos
of the news, faces
splashed across
the papers of the world.
What a celebrity’s death.
What a hero’s death.
Oh, to be that well known.
I shall be forced
to lie at a pauper’s
funeral, with a mere
small carved out stone,
alone. Once my kin
walk from the grave,
no one will ever show,
not to mow the grass
nor to lament
my passing. My death
shall find no history.
No one, no one
has been put upon
quite like me. And what
of the gravediggers
and field workers,
who toil in low paid
obscurity, who work
with the sun
and make no money?
How put upon are they?
Not very much really.
They are thick
with the love of the sun,
free to come and go
as they please, respected
and looked up to
by young ones,
who carry them
as talismans, swear
to do better. And from
my children, nothing.
I never see them,
and never see
the healing rays of light
from the sky. No, I
am trapped in this office,
in this penthouse suite,
in this suit and tie
that forces my doughy
body to atrophy. No,
no one has been put upon
quite like me. Finally,
what of the children?
The workers of the world
who knit my suit, who
put together the products
sold by my company,
who die in fires
and accidents, blatant
mistreatments to prop up
profitable and abusive
regimes. Oh, when I
was there age, to have
a job and to have money,
to have a life’s purpose
and be saving
for retirement. How
I have been
held back by
my gender and skin,
by my nationality
and my religion.
How the world
has kept its thumb
pressed down
on my neck,
forced me into
this life of excess
and pity. No one,
and I mean no one,
has been put upon
quite like me.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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