The Commissars yet to be assigned their desks;
you pick today to text:
“What have the revolutionaries ever done
for the likes of me?”
And it reads like the ravings
of a depressed person at a bus stop
with a hole in his shoe,
who has better shoes at home,
but is saving them; a guy
who sleeps on a mattress
with a tear in it, and a stray spring
stabbing him in the night;
though he bought a new bed
months back, he never
got it delivered,
and the shop thinks he’s died.
For he loves the feel
of that spring cutting into his back,
the way a well adjusted slave
loves Pharaoh
being there on his throne
to complain about.
Photo Credit: William Murphy via Flikr