This is a stand-up poem I was reluctant to write. But every once in a while a poem idea comes to me and insists on being written. This is one such poem. Some may argue that it is too “on the nose”.
Others may argue that it is straight to the point. I'll let the readers judge for themselves.
DIALECTIC
The non-productive rich
are not earners.
They are Gainers
or, perhaps, more accurately,
Extractors.
The most pitiless of taxmen
who raise the rents
not because they have to
not because they have
remodeled the kitchen,
the bathroom,
or even fixed the plumbing.
But simply because they can.
With the proceeds
of this most usurious fee
going to the greatest cause
their stunted vision can perceive:
themselves.
The non-productive rich
are not idle.
They are frenetically busy
at the slots, the roulettes,
and the game tables of life;
where not even sleep is spared
in their endless endeavors.
A chase, a race, they do better
than anyone else,
but never, ever really win.
The non-productive rich
are not honest
No.
Not even to themselves.
They are often the first
to cry “Foul”.
That the game is fixed against them.
Then quietly,
while no one is looking,
slip the ref a few hundred
“in the interest of fairness.”
The non-productive rich
are not ignorant.
They come from the best schools
(meant mainly for them)
and certainly a few
super smart want-to-Be's
Who's sparkling, scintillating,
burning, brilliance
belie their shabby clothes
and scruffy, scrappy origins.
Who live and breath
in the rarefied air of genius
only they can bring,
not to mention the elegance
of the latest fashions
the hippest music,
and the finest, fastest cars,
Who, along with their fellows,
are sometimes only begrudgingly
allowed to join the club.
Even sometimes after they
have already served their purpose.
The non-productive rich
are not generous.
Despite giving away
vast sums
which most can't count
or even imagine,
to ever grateful charities,
like giving a few teaspoon
portions of sugar to ants
from a ten pound bag.
The non-productive rich
are not evil.
No.
Despite many appearances
to the contrary.
Under a regime
any junkie or crack head
would intimately understand.
Shouldering an invisible monkey;
Who's diamond dappled hands
have kaleidoscope palms
meant to blinder the vision
allowing only what the monkey sees.
Who's seductive, insistent voice
ever whispers in their ears
the bitching, bewitching words:
“More, more, more.”
Who's strong, sinuous,
gold speckled, jade ivy legs
sensuously, seductively
wrap around their throats
silencing, stifling out
any hint or hope of a conscience.