By David Yezzi
I don’t say things I don’t want to say
or chew the fat with fat cats just because.
With favor-givers who want favors back,
I tend to pass on going for the ask.
I send, instead, a series of regrets,
slip the winding snares that people lay.
The unruffledness I feel as a result,
the lank repose, the psychic field of rye
swayed in wavy air, is my respite
among the shivaree of clanging egos
on the packed commuter train again tonight.
Sapping and demeaning—it takes a lot
to get from bed to work and back to bed.
I barely go an hour before I’m caught
wincing at the way that woman laughs
or he keeps clucking at his magazine.
And my annoyance fills me with annoyance.
It’s laziness that lets them seem unreal
—a radio with in-and-out reception
blaring like hell when it finally hits a station.
The song that’s on is not the one I’d hoped for,
so I wait distractedly for what comes next.
Source: Poetry (November 2010)
More Poems about Social Commentaries
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
The Glories of Our Blood and State
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal...