We Fear the Poor
We fear the poor
they are weaker than us
their eyes are dull, and they
do not return us
to our reflection
We hate the poor
they are thieves
who have abandoned our principals
they take our cars
they rob our wallets
they steal our bikes
We fear the poor
they caress us with their
dry, veiny hands when
we don’t want to be touched
when we are trying to meditate
in the quiet hours of morning
as we drive to work
they crawl along Hastings Street
in coats that are falling apart,
and are much too big for their emaciated
bodies
they sprawl on the sidewalks with their limbs thrashing
skinny legs covered in scabs
which connect to each other
by thin, watery veins that
have been punctured
over
and
over
and
over
this is what bothers us most
they cross the street without looking
even when we roll down the windows
of our cars and holler at them
and this is what angers us most
get off the road we yell
and they yell back
screaming at us
yeah yeah
go fuck Yourself
motherfucking cocksucker sonofabitch
or
they trip and
we laugh
you stupid fucking junkie
We are enraged by the poor
before they swallow their addiction
it swallows them whole
their sons sell crack and
their daughters sell themselves
they sleep wrapped in dirty bedding
out in the open
on busy street corners
behind shopping-cart barricades
they creep one by one
toward us
a dead, urban army
with eyes which fail to reflect
and return us to our reflection
and all that is good
instead yawning open
so we can peer into pain
and so it seems
we are
coming apart
at
the seams
© Christy Frisken
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