Fortunate Son

When the whip comes down
On the common word, exact without vulgarity

And consorts begin dancing among themselves
Scouring the summertime thickets of forged visas

And the guard from St. Louis bums a light, says
“You’re not from round here, are ya?”

The time has passed for putting on airs
For recollecting a vulgar marxism for a vulgar world.

The murderers of our own children, the hooded friars
Who find it hard to be human with no memory

Sit stoic on the board of the holding company
That mined the harbors in Haiphong and Baltimore

With dried bones, insisting we follow our leader.
After clearing customs, time thickens and takes on flesh.

R. D. Girard | Mudlark No. 21
Contents | No Particular Place to Go