Destitute

Poetry

May 8

I want the rich men in Washington to be destitute.

I’m talking about the pick-yourself-up-by-the-boot-straps destitute —

the holes in the toes, crappy soles, bootless, boot-straps —

that kind of

destitute.

I want those men to get off their high horse.

The turn-around, get-down, on-the-ground, off the horse —

the picketing, rioting, join-the-labor-force, off the horse —

yes, that kind of

destitute.

I want the rich men in Washington to beg.

I’m talking about the unsafe, insecure, live paycheck-to-paycheck beg —

the struggling, life’s-a-wreck-for-want-of-a-paycheck, kind of beg.

That kind of

destitute.

I want those men in Washington to feel.

I’m talking about the all-alone, single mother feel —

the crying, undying, endure-as-you-have-endured kind of spiel.

Yes, that kind of

destitute.

I want the rich men in Washington to be attacked.

the empty-cupboard, endless-summer kind of attack —

the starving, cracked-lips, without-a-fallback kind of attack.

That kind of

destitute.

I want those men in their red and blue ties to hurt.

I’m talking about the doctorless, helpless, treated-like-dirt hurt —

the agonizing, patronizing, treatment-is-curt kind of hurt.

I want the men in Washington to be my kind of

destitute.

The hurt, attacked, feeling, begging, off-the-horse kind of

destitute.

I want those men in Washington to be like me

to be like mine

to learn to suffer for a time.

I want those men in Washington to remember the

destitute

when they count their coins and pinch their pennies

and wonder why the poor can’t find gold in the pavement.

Toward and Away From Zero