IN THE REAL WORLD
Let the philanthropists leave their
mansion grounds
picture windows where
their good works are forever preening
like headless granite statues;
let a madman romp in their gardens,
a beggar eat off their table,
a hooker sleep in their clean white sheets
while they stand guard over the door;
today, the warden comes for dessert
but let it be the criminal,
not the giant serpent arms of the law
instead the petty snail trails
of the addict and the thief;
and instead of pretty daughters
why not bag ladies;
and for the wife who adores all his money
greet the ones who’d love a little of it;
high Oil the hills, the prisons of good
greet the sun as if the sun is greeting them;
let it rain a little on such mornings,
and a wealthy man be the peasant out in it
dampened by the spit of kings.