William Doreski
As you attempt to question the sky
it coughs itself empty, leaving
a socket large enough to plug in
the one universal connection.
But what about people cringing
with intractable cancer pain
or the loss of a beloved pet?
What about warmongers claiming
the lives, land, and possessions
of those who aren’t even enemies?
In our placid beige neighborhood
stick houses sell for millions
to ensure that the poor go unhoused.
Medical care is weighed on a scale
balanced by solid gold ingots.
You know how ugly the zombies
of public sadism become when
someone challenges their rule.
You peer into the absence of sky
and wonder how such a hollow
can maintain its baggy shape.
A woman pushes a stroller crammed
with toddlers, blankets, and canned goods.
She would never look up at the sky
at the same angle you assume
when shellfire roars five thousand miles
merely to fall at your feet.