(Cont.d)No doubt, I’m poor:
I do have cash
but cant spend it
do have jewels
but cant dump them
have a song ─
in a cage ─
with clipped wings ─
like a poor man sucking
at the withered teat
of his putative mother
who calls him “son” ─
as if it was a nickname.
Once we had a mother
but she’s been kidnapped ─
her breasts were milk fountains
where we all drank...
(Now, we just spit.)
And yet we still have
her voice, the cadence,
that deep low note
of the music, the wail ─