99% Reality Continues

In the world of spurious power…

Quiet motoring ascends.

Chauffeured remembrances abound.

From conscious plans,
resultant essence remains unconscious.

Once of graveled driveway,
now adorned by heated concrete,
the tinted dark windows motor past,
isolating more inequality tending vast surroundings.

Where once scrub oak ran wild,
cypress trees line extravagant entre,
embracing switchbacks to the fortress façade
now but another Wall Street property
another clandestine manipulation turned gold.

Hesitant eyes turn from smoked glass
to manicured hands folding a silk hem over exposed flesh
as if couturiere pampering could insulate the guilt
while passing guiltless willingness 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 requited 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 pawns of daily fates.

Ignoring the ceremony,
the she-of-he ascends the grand staircase.
The he-of-she gazes after,
exuding the intimate question never answered.

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
walled library of
color coordinated spines,
all the classics,
all the must reads,
all unopened,
all merely more of delusional living.

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.

the 99 % reality continues,
historical by nature,
but seen by oh so few.