The following poem is from Cantos of the 1%
Molly’s Irish Pub, Toulouse Street, New Orleans
You know when the young, solo bartender
pulls a sweater over her t-shirt in 80 degree
afternoon heat that the two fellas at the bar,
deprived of a handful of teeth, are too
depraved for yet another plastic cup of liquor,
Their eyes articulate more than their slurs,
Their rope-and-scrap-metal callouses
reach for the cups beyond the cup.
Ply them with car bombs, smile, and pray
they stumble back up the Mississippi
to load another bulbous-bowed Shanghai
vessel with bales of scrap metal harvested
from junkyards beside overgrown fields that once
grew the same weight of cotton plucked by hands
no more black. To think that one of these crackers
loaded the raw material for my iPhone.
*Note - Photo of Stephen Brockwell courtesy of rob mclennan.
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