Living the 99% Reality
Quiet motoring ascends.
Chauffeured remembrances abound.
From conscious plans
resultant essence remains unconscious.
Once of graveled driveway,
now adorned by heated concrete,
the motor’s tinted dark windows pass
isolated inequality tending vast surroundings.
Where once natural scrub oak ran wild,
monthly groomed cypress trees line extravagant entre
embracing switchbacks to the fortress façade,
now but another Wall Street property enhanced,
another clandestine manipulation turned gold.
Hesitant passenger eyes turn from tinted glass
down to manicured hands folding a silk hem over exposed flesh
as if couturiere pampering could insulate the guilt
while passing subservient faces,
guiltless motivation to serve.
Bent backs of gardeners
beneath threadbare cotton cover
straighten to smile their faces of pain,
to nod what's expected,
to nod with required obedience,
to nod for survival.
The Bentley proceeds,
its hubris aglow with
gold flecked adornment,
chrome in trumpeting announcement
obviating any modesty of gluttonous image.
Arched as half coliseum,
ancient ruin sans crumbling stone,
a granite storied estate looms ahead,
its historic facade hovering over the stop,
the exit,
the entrance to…
Alcove of marble,
checkered with live chess pieces awaiting,
maid and butler,
servant this,
and servant that,
compliant daily fates.
Ignoring the ceremony,
the once pitying she of he
ascends the grand staircase.
as the he of she gazes after,
exuding the intimate question
never to overcome the scars.
Retiring to his quasi-safe room,
he closes the doors,
latches tight,
stands a moment,
slides down,
back to wall,
wall to floor,
slumped respite eyeing
the he walled library of legal history
beside the she array of
color coordinated spines,
all the classics,
all the must reads,
all unopened,
all merely more of the masquerade.
Outside, a little girl picks a flowered weed,
hands it to her hunched-back mother.
The spade is laid aside.
Mother and child
A smile.
A touch.
A 99 percent reality,
talked of by many,
seen by oh so few,
known well by the Judge
as he tries to enjoy his evening.
The simple pleasures described by the child picking the wildflower are lost to the 1%. Everything to them passionately over the top or not at all.
On the other hand, by that last stanza, it could be what it's like to be selected to the Supreme Court of the land, Judge. ;-)
Ron