I want someone to see me.
I want someone to know
it ain’t easy.
That life is luck and you’re lucky if you got It.
I want someone to see me
and the masses
and the wretched,
our big eyed clutching kids
with tears streaming down their tiny faces.
No one wants to write poems about the proletariat anymore
or collecting cans
or waiting on lines
or praying for good health
or popping a pill
or pedaling as fast as you can.
No one sees me and I try to be good.
I want to be good.
But somehow
I’m still at the very end of a line,
the very end of a rope.
No one wants to write poems about the proletariat anymore.
No one knows what that means.
And I’m tired of explaining it again and again and again.
Purpose, objectives, priorities, goals,
why do I want to be here and
how many words do you want?
Feed my family!
Read my poem!
Look
at
me!
No One Wants to Write Poems About the Proletariat Anymore
