Poem: Gather Round

By: David Lohrey

gatheraround

The deplorables are deplorable.
That’s the ticket.
They don’t care.
The men’s bellies show beneath
their shrunken T-shirts.
The women’s asses block the aisle
at Trader Joe’s.
Their children say fuck and shit like that.
They’re incorrigible.
The parents keep beer in the fridge for themselves
when there’s no milk left for their kids.
This is why they’re called low class.

On the other hand, there’s the oligarchy.
They work hard to stay slim.
They powder their privates and care
about etiquette.
They never tell their kids they can do what
they want. The parents are bossy.
While the deplorables are backpacking across
Europe, the oligarchs are doing internships in
the White House or at Google. They’re money hungry.
The rich always need money.
The rich don’t say things like, “All one needs to be happy
is some brie and a nice glass of wine.”
They’re totally aware that everything depends
on having more. If it weren’t for them, we’d
have a middle class.

So where does this leave us?
It’s about time.
Prepare, I’d say, for the worst.
Men won’t come to the back door
offering a day’s labor for a hot meal.
They’ll come in through the front door and they
won’t bother knocking.
We’ll be seeing what the Europeans were
forced to endure.
The marauders will slit men’s throats
and slice open the women.
Like wild dogs, the home invaders
will bite off the women’s nipples.
There’ll be no time for sharing, no
chance to tell their side of the story.

Justice will be swift. Those without
will rob those with.
It’ll be a bloodbath. Some will
say we had it coming. We deserve it.
Others will fight back.
Poets will not be called in to put
things right. They’ll be shot
if they are lucky. Everyone will live in fear.
The news will be too much to bear.
Who will put Humpty Dumpty together
again?
Mother Goose is dead.

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