I stand at the crossroads
Of a world gone mad
Tossing in the current
Of “Great Events”
But all the while forgetting
The deeper whirlpool
Towards which all things flow
We gamble on the fringes
And shout each other down
Words of life are few
And death is but a drama
For the headlines’ scrawl
Each side making something of it
Squeezing it for what it’s worth
Like lemons, citrus-tart
But we avert our eyes
From the gaze of others
Aflame with the pain
That burns in the heart
Of aloneness and shame
We form our party lines
And break our common bonds
We will not see the sorrow
But only clink our change
And loudly balk and bawl
At what we think they’ve taken
From out of our pockets
Shallow souls, those pockets
Dark eyes of strangers
We will not meet
Wells of mystery
We will not plumb
We cynics of our solitude
Not sacred contemplation
But a throwing up of walls
As thick as ignorance can build
And self-righteous indignation
At this percent or that
Who look so unlike
Our cold glass reflections
Our scales kill our sight
And wax blocks our ears
We will not see
The blessed poor
Displaced, dispersed, disgraced
By desperation driven
And destitution wrenched
Nor hear
The silent scream
Of our own offspring
Torn limb from limb
In the tomb of the womb
We play our petty games
And lose sight of the prize
The deepest treasures
Must be known
As one knows
The face of a friend
Touch that face
Feel the lines and etchings
Of storied lives
Let your fingers breath
Sentient, singing
In the search for life’s mystery
And when you memorize
The words of life
That bristle at your fingertips
Nevermore
Will pockets feel
So deep