Poor and Hero
went on a date.
One arrived early.
The other arrived late.
Poor had some wine.
Hero drank water.
They talked of affairs,
and of Mercy their daughter.
Over a course
of potatoes and meat,
Poor grew furious
and Hero didn’t eat.
“We’re misunderstood,”
Poor claimed in her rants,
heedless who would hear
and firm in her stance.
Hero gave a nod
and silently agreed.
“We’re a matter of perspective
and a fixutre of need.”
“Exactly!” Poor cried,
spraying spittle and crumbs.
“We’re being counterfeited
and our confederates are dumb.”
I’m Poor
and that means something precise.
It means I’m selling my blood
so I can afford to eat rice.
It means I wash myself
using stolen soap.
It means my socks are rotting
like river rope.
It means my teeth will hurt,
my body will ache,
my stomach will growl,
and heads will shake.”
“Life isn’t fair,”
Hero lamented.
“The grapes we’ve collected
have unfortunately fermented.
They call me Hero.
It’s what they declared.
I just did what I thought was right
while the others simply stared.
I was afraid.
I’ve no inkling why I helped.
I guess it’s who I am.
It was how I was whelped.”
Poor finished off her meal.
Hero gave her a peck.
Poor wiped away a tear,
and Hero paid the check.
Koyotee Laughing 