Your Basket

Who sleeps in your basket, you do-gooder, you holy-roller,
you collector of praise and recompense? Who gains your heart,
who is awarded your most gentle caress? I have painted
the ones you’ve forgotten or ignored. I have used the color
of concrete for all of their faces, and detailed the vacuum
that lies behind the lids of their eyes. Unity? Love? These things
are like swimming pools and fluted glasses. These things
don’t belong to the castaways, the untouchables, the queens
and the necks that rest on train tracks. I wonder
if Ghandi had an iPhone who he would call for help to set
the world on its knees – would he call you? Would Jesus
rip his wrist away from the spike on the cross and offer
you a pat on the back? For all your trouble, for all your intents
and purposes, would Martin Luther King Jr invite you in?
It is an ego the girth of Saturn that dwells, bald faced
in your basket, and the stench of it has chased
the crown of mercy from your head. Goodnight, sweet Prince,
beautiful Princess, goodnight. Rest now, may you dream
tonight of ugly things, and may they dwell upon your lips
forever rest upon your hips and weigh upon your brow.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019


About theminstrelscitadel

In search of courageous souls who aren't afraid to dig a little deeper and have a conversation about all manner of things. Rant, rave, debate, discuss... let's do it!
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