Folk Song

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Some justice is whore justice
because more justice is wrong
I am the neophyte plebeian
posing as exemplar,
dredging syllables into song
I take my heart for the picture
not steadfast legal stricture
I am a man of means beyond my might

I am poetician, bottom feeder
a plank for my landlord’s imagination
I am a sinister delinquent
of moral ineptitude
why make an arrangement
that doesn’t include payment
with such a man
who was born to tie another man’s shoes?

The dental assistant assures me
her boss may be seventy
but all the hours he puts in
for people of my particular company
are because he cares about me and you

but the mean scowl on his face when I had a question
made me pause for reflection
perhaps it was his, or someone else’s indiscretion
for the financial distress, the reason for his egress
into the mouths of people like me
long into his seventies.
Didn’t he have someplace better to be?

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