Bridges, V

They are ethnic or religioned or ideologued or classed

as junkies to heroin dens; I’ll not detach

them, if I need more than words, no bridge will attract

them to leave their enclaves, for which all are phylacts.

 

But enough: represent the ascent of the small percent

lock the door to the Starbucks and sing a lament

for the world outside that our mission has flied

to but has not converted — for it has all reverted

to hammers and forges and plebian engorgements

the rest of our porfolio sold them; we told them

we were into fair trade, that these lattés were made

in photogenic catalogues; all of our demagogue

friends assured us, implored us,

to spread the good news, lest we think we abuse

the un-included. Lock the doors, let us hoard

the nice pumpkin spice,

lest the blue-collars holler

for a drink — and I think

they have local accents! –and their necks

have that lawn-work tan, like they did not plan

to sport them, so escort them

out, with a pout,

as their rump hits the dump: perform shock when they Trump.

 

Once bunkered, they remain in their dens, their pens;

feed distractions, just fractions of ease that disease

their minds, stung, now liquid, hung; so pop in a straw

and draw out through the suck as one can from these schlups.

 

Each group is now cancer, now that each armed its wall;

no enterprise there invites all, loosely-ropes-in

a commons where goods beckon for one and all

–it’s disjunction.

They wear it not lightly, nor make it an open

project of a public; their identity calls

upon them to search out a worldly hope in

some luncheon

story.

 

Bunkers are guarded: no commerce thrives there,

no wagon-train dares to ascend the lone stair

that guards the one threshold that protects the one pair

of eyes that spy out (as for blasting, don’t dare);

monotony’s war upon rhyme: unrepaired;

if one’s single heart is fused here, one must tear

it away; a mapmaker cannot build a door, and affairs

other than huddling cannot ensue where

even the air

is thin,

and even grins

grimace,

gasping.

 

5 thoughts on “Bridges, V

  1. If you step into someone’s house
    You better to be prepared to live by their rules
    I know
    It sucks
    But most people love their rules
    And dislike it when they get broken
    You are always a risk for confrontation
    It’s the vulnerability that sucks
    Because you never know when rules are broken
    I have been there
    and had to man up
    The shape of things to come
    Aren’t looking real fit
    The Sheldon Perspective

    Liked by 1 person

  2. It took me several re-reads before I began to understand the theme of the poem (thinking about the connotations of ‘bridges’ helped). I haven’t read poetry since finishing my English course in high school (a few years ago), but trying to understand poems is a good mental exercise. I think it builds concentration and patience. And I liked the theme and style of yours.
    One thing: you misspelled “heroin” in the first stanza and there is an unclosed bracket in the second stanza.

    Liked by 1 person

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