Riches [Day 7]

Hurry, hurry, the sun’s going down,
the workers have left the factories
and the children are crying, now, and
the women stoke the fires in the house,
money lenders are gathering in the
streets, the beggars are shrugging off
the dust like it’ll make them new and
less ingrained with the tarnished skin
of their living, while the collar men are
neat and tidy in their beds with
a book about radical change to read,
and their feet propped up leisurely,
their empty smiles still sticking
as if the walls that are theirs hold
every right to pass on their secrets
so they mustn’t let them know any,
and their pretty eyes, pretty nails
pretty body, pretty house is the
burning reminder of all the money
they can’t spend: “heartless wrenches!”
tell the men in the torn sheets, the dim
lights of the lamp posts showing just
enough of their gruff speech, their
cold feet, their burnt cheeks, and
the women still stoke the fires in the
house, and make tea, while the
money lenders spit in the alleys
not caring enough about the rich,
because they soon will be, and those
in the empty houses with enough
heat, lie tossing and turning, all but
keen to revisit the nights when
the ghosts of cold nights slip back
in the sheets, whimpering, wondering
how could the man who worked hard
be the man who deserved to have the
riches quite rightly of the poor, the needy?


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