“Cynic,”she called me
when I said, “Disasters
shouldn’t be this much fun,”
and laughed out loud at
bouncing cheerleaders
in short skirts holding
hastily scrawled signs reading,
“Help Katrina’s Victims,”
and pointed us to yet
another car wash
where we could watch
idealistic teens try
to scrub away
generations of neglect.
“Americans love a good
disaster,” I retorted.
Nothing makes us feel
as good as helping
those we’ve exploited
the last 150 years.
For half a millisecond
we’re one nation, under God,
invisible, clothing the poor
by emptying closets
of Calvin Klein jeans,
Vera Wang dresses,
and, later, deducting twice
the value of our donations.
Well said… As if your recent fun and skills with the camera have taken over your words too!
Yikes! Don’t f— with the poet (as David Whyte would say).
jon
Or maybe not,
said another man
as he watched yet another truck with out-of-state plates
bringing simple things, water, towels, hope
twenty trucks where four started out
wanting only to do what they could
and doing more
if we can’t seem to prepare
at least we can still react
maybe one day we’ll get it right