A SCRUFFY IRONY

(Old Beggar, by Louis Drewis, 1916)

I dress for comfort.
Sometimes, I forget
To shave.
Sometimes, I’m mistaken
For a bum -- even by people
Who know better,
Who have seen and heard
My work, if not
Appreciated it.

A local art gallery hostess,
Who’s been often
Rude to me,
Now cringes, fearful,
Should I pass her
On the street.
So I’ll glare at her
To add to the effect.
Frankly, it tickles me
A little – the absurd
Assumptions of
Her tiny mind.

What we lack in wealth,
We make up in
This power given to us
From a distance
By our disenfranchisers.
Since it’s about fear,
This is some sort
Of advantage.

As for the so-called “powerful”
Who rule so-called
“polite society,”
Those of us whose calls
They’d smugly not return
Can stalk them
Through dark alleys
In their dreams –
The demonized
At last
Supreme, at least
In certain situations.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

THE TASTE POLICE

How many times
Have you tried to share
Something you loved
With a friend –
Something that moved you,
That made you see your life more clearly –
Some work of art, a song perhaps.

They would encourage you to share,
But then dismiss it
without listening,
Would ridicule it even
As it played for the first time, not
For a moment consider
That it might have merit
If it had meaning for you.

For them, it was just an opportunity
To prove that they had better taste
Than you; that you, in fact,
Were stupid in comparison to them.
This was a triumph, another occasion to sneer,

Though they would still call you a friend,
Though they’d deny
that hurting you was their intention, claim
You’d asked for their opinion, after all.
They’d say they only gave you honesty,
Though all you got from them was their hostility.
Does rudeness ever demonstrate good taste?
And is it ever really honest? If this
Were really simply an opinion, what were they
So angry about? You didn’t invite
that abuse,

and yet you’d cling to it
for years, no matter how much
you’d want to forget it.
What you thought was a moment
In a grown-up friendship
Was high school all over again – worse,
The playground from childhood. And you
Saw it for exactly what it was.


Later, they’d pretend
They didn’t understand
Why things were no longer the same, as if
They didn’t see their little victory –
They’d proved to you
Your taste was bad, all right –
Your taste in friends, that is.

You’d fix that, but
You’d never tell them why.
In fact, you’d never again
Tell them
Anything.

Why give even a grinning enemy
Another round of ammunition?


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey



All rights reserved. This work may not be duplicated or reproduced in any way without the author's written permission.