Back to the Pit (Poem)

Tuesday, February 4, 2025

Back to the pit, the grind of a salon—
the service, the work surrounding the rest,
the excess for me, born of a low wage.

That pleasure, that pampered man, by the illegal—
she can’t make her bills, it’s cool, shhh, just do your thing.
We don’t pay you to think.
Don’t think about it—
it’s just inequality we got used to.

Hoist the curtain, show the celebrities, the applause—
hey, operator over there, pay attention and don’t let go.

The invisible bones, the strength of all work,
the essential, treated like an outsider, commanded—
do you want to survive?

God hears that groan, sees the exploits of wealth,
reserves wrath, stores it up—
I bet that dam is about to break.
Floods of justice come screaming for the voiceless,
advocacy in a world that buried decency.

That poor, that broken, that lost, that invisible—
expedite the documents, let ‘em go, transformed.

Sun, rise warm on the soldiers,
let them see dignity and decency,
let them defy the orders,
especially when they’re wrong.

Let’s see the sacred,
fellow sentient blood machines.
Don’t cry, we’ll find a way—
we’re together.

Take advantage,
and you won’t get nothing but a hit—
fascist smackdowns, political cage matches.
Where’s Congress?
Oh, in that one packet.

In that one packet, receive your pay.
Two or three big pockets, pulling strings.

Dominoes fall.
Fight them with economics,
churned up in it,
bystanders drowning
while would-be saviors
negotiate trade disputes.

_poem