Model citizens they keep to themselves, like closed books on dusty and solitary shelves. I read Within their volumes of poverty and despair. A pauper’s dogma preached with a rich man’s flair. Heirs to the ghetto, they’re wide eyed and full of need. Nearly invisible when consumed by greed. Eight hours a day I heard the raucous melody play a singular note plunked in rapid succession an arpeggio of lies and fabrication. Downcast sweaty faces blistered hands clapping with dimwitted admiration, a pathetic charade, but one of their own creation. The shrills of indignity echoed in my head, Placid silhouettes reflections of the dead. A solemn testament to a downward progression inequity masquerading in a history’s regression. I watched as a thick haze blazed inside an angry red dawn. Tick tock, tick tock another night gone. ailments like chains tethered to their beds impatient they listen a sinking feeling of dread. The maestro cue...
Original stories and poems by Patrick James