The heart grows old in
greens and golds, the gray
streaked beard and
plans gone fallow while
the eyes look away.
At the end of the day
this gaze betrays the pettiness of
intention, empty hands
harden into threats and fists
while the gifted and the fortunate
course on oblivious to all
the slings and arrows living
milk and honey lives have
aimed their way. The saga
woven of sweat and grit and
God’s favor falling flat
never knowing the blood debt
they carry like their garish
frippery, casually lifted
upon countless broken backs,
the green seared stare
that scatters the air and
fixes crosshairs whet with
spat out curses at all
the dreams lived without effort
as if they were the ordinary and
the everyday, stricken by
a distant star, starved of all
save invective, epithets, and scars.