Poem of the Month

Culling the herd

A rightwing official announced
two or three percent deaths
is acceptable—to him. What
of the Black mother of three
drowning of phlegm in her lungs?

Tell the fireman who lacked
a mask how expendable he is.
Don’t forget his pregnant widow.
Tell the brilliant college student
on scholarship she’s dying for you.

From your Trump tower duplex
you gaze on the crowds, people
too tiny to count and so many
are the wrong color. They’d die
anyhow, no health insurance.

Don’t expect those happy few
to shuck out money to save
people who don’t matter. CEO,
hedge fund manager, bank pres,
NRA official, real estate mogul,

you hardly consider us human
unless you can make a profit
from our bodies, our minds, our
talent. Then we may live until
you find us no longer of use.