Friday, 16 February 2018

Skin Trade

The poor… always in the sidelines
with their shadow eyes and hands extended

The poor… susceptible in submission kneel in a kind of humility
brought low by sorrows you have learned to rise above

The poor… need you to be strong
to rescue them from fate and themselves

The poor… need the comfort of hands
not raw embraces flesh to flesh as the price of compliance

How long has help been a business a transaction
where the powerless have no voice
no choice but to sell their worthless skin?

How long have their hoarse whispers died in the throat
while ill-fitting help made in no-one’s shape
is laid over the bones of their need?

Too long in the marketplace of relief
the vulnerable are bought and sold
their helplessness a commodity assessed and valued
the coin of human frailty ransomed for moral profit

Too long in high-rise boardrooms have you traded
poverty and its palliatives across mahogany desks
products and assets - shoddy goods for sale

Too long now have you sat beside the masters
learning their ways

Too long have you depended on the weak
for your strength

Too long

© Brian Hill

Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).

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