Easing Into Corruption
Flies are god’s creatures and have their right
to crawl over the ripe peaches of my skin.
They die at night, or so it seems,
they leave me alone with my smoke and thoughts.
This tobacco dried and cured,
handrolled by arthritic brown fingers in Honduras
for fifty cents a day, a single cigar a month’s pay.
Sun going down and my mind at rest,
a million eyes opening in dark blades of grass.
The President of Honduras sleeps
in air conditioned splendor, at peace
with the lives of ten million peasants.
Wind lying down,
cigar going out, flies crawling
wherever they go to die for the night.