Strike

(Dialysis, Spring 2009)

In my blood garbage crowds the imagined streets
they refuse to pick up. No one
comes to cut the branches,
which thrash against my every power-line.
A buzz runs through this stalled city like a strike.
This and many other failings I oversee,
but to whom should I complain?
Gatherings of united cells argue amongst themselves;
my beautiful muscles walk out, balance quits,
whatever appetite made nausea rescinds;
against my will, threats: all talks halt.    
Who can be this patient? The doctors probe
to find any faith or cooperation, any public trust
between these disgruntled organs.
If I can be good, self sufficient
awhile, my body will not be out-sourced.
For five hours a day inside my arms
trade routes they propose must stay trafficked,
deep ship channels so production might improve.
Some contracts with health lock us in
to unreasonable demands.
To make banana republics within my veins,
incorporate peasants to drop slow ploughs,
to mechanize every last inch,
coerce a factory through my skin, they lobby well,
these technicians and specialists.
What is and isn’t un-American, I forget.
A backwards country,
I struggle for a better system and cannot sleep
while something tireless,
fanatic, even, is picketing against me.

Reviews

[Ruth]

WOW! That struggle is needed, we all need to wake up a little and see the world for what it is! This is profound and potent, I am blessed to have read this friend! xx