Pocket Neighborhoods

Pocket Neighborhoods

(“Seek good and not evil—and live! You talk about God, the God-of-the-Angel-Armies, being your best friend. Well, live like it, and maybe it will happen.” Amos 5:14 [The Message])

Shall we sentence capital, thus ending our options,
if one innocent life can no longer speak?

We know the dead have no voice,
their pockets are empty,
their mouths without sound,
their eyes no longer seeking the justice
only the living can find.

Shall we put our hands in our pockets
fingering the gold coins we keep warm
against another cold snap? And what if the gold
is less precious than bread,
silver the less than the tin sardines are sold in?

We dreamed and built our houses better,
higher on the hill than we expected. The climb
was worth it, here out of touch from the grimy fingers
that pretend only to want lunch but haven’t eaten in a week.

We hire singers to soothe the conscience which occasionally
prompts backstage of our private performances. When we
run out, we pay double for musicians to make up tunes
just to keep the background noise right up front
drowning the script good parents taught about
give, share, kind and doubt about our certainties
of who deserves dessert and who should be left out.
And we sing loudest when the band strikes up
“Amazing Grace”.

We need a new neighborhood, perhaps where the condos
are built of cardboard; the timeshare pools the puddles after rain.
We need neighbors by name, by cousin, by cuisine we’ve
never tasted and now, pockets empty, are free to dine.