Pitch Black Light
by Odin Roark

We made the discovery…

There's a place
we all know,
Main Street America,
that place where
deals are made,
making innocents guilty,
where trials are tried,
justice is…

We learned about them

This place that started early,
with schools short of everything,
lined paper
pencils with worn erasers
half-length crayons
chalk stubs
nothing whole,
as administrators gloated
while checking their check balances
and brass-plaque awards on the walls.

It grew as we grew,
and eventually many bought into it.

There were so many jumping off points,
the first job,
first date,
first car,
oh yes…
the first seduction.

Such enticement.

Some found this glitter place,
where 3 piece suits
came from Brooks Bros. and Bonwit Teller,
not Ann Taylor or Men’s Warehouse,
where 2 martini lunches
nurtured well the norm,
easily trumping yesteryear's
Big Macs and cokes.

Many joined them.

Where going home,
meant driver driven,
doorman greetings,
gilded elevator ascent,
fortification behind a wrap-around glass enclosure,
marble floored,
24 hour surround-life,
where one’s fantasy world
heard only one’s own voice,
saw only one’s own mirrored image,
resolute atop an encapsulated terrace view.

Some
looked out.

Some
looked skyward.

Some
looked down.

Thirty-eight floors below,
everyday workers,
made possible this takers haven,
this insulated veneer,
delusion's platinum exterior
continuing to absorb
greed's pitch black light.