to Poverty

You've grown comfortable
Over the centuries, Poverty—over
Huddled throngs of sufferers
Working thin, dying empty.

How long will men and women
Remain so unaware? We scurry
Between parcels, paperwork, and townships;
You roost unconcerned, your
Nest egg far beyond our frantic hands.

Your machine runs on our fear of lack:
One marionette takes from fifty others,
Worry tethering him to your fancy.
His careful exploitation keeps you
Fat and happy.

You perch, blubber oozing on all sides,
On a tin stool behind a tattered shower curtain,
Thumbing buttons to keep us afraid,
Beguiling us with tall economic tales.

You are wealth's cheap counterfeit:
Ozymandias' empty boasts,
Oz's wimpy wizard--
It won't be guns or funds
That finally end you.

One day the King of Glory will
Melt the callouses from our eyes.
When we see what we've done,
and what you are, o Poverty,
Our hands will drive His Truth
Deep into your bloated gut.

You'll fall off your tin throne,
And no one will see; no one will care.

​We'll be too awestruck,
Dumbstruck at the real thing
To note the end of a fraud.