A poem by Sha’Tara
You’re in the twenty-first century, son:
don’t bother looking up, there’s nothing to see.
Keep your head down and another laced cookie
will reshape the world differently, no need
to lift your eyes, there’s nothing to see,
is there. Vacant eyes studying the rug:
perfect pose for the occasion.
Everything that’s shopped for
gets carted away in stretching plastic bags
under sagging shoulders and drizzly clouds.
You’ve seen it a million times, or you’d have
if you’d ever opened your eyes
beyond the keyboard. But hey, forget it,
never mind that, I can wax philosophical
at the most inauspicious moments.
It’s all completely meaningless, isn’t it,
a happy meaninglessness created just for you.
Don’t let me spoil your high. Build it up,
your high school reunion is tonight. Not
all of ‘em are dead yet if they’re still
on Facebook. Was I talking about
global warming, or warning? Maybe.
Maybe it’s a train; maybe it’s the rain,
that clatter, maybe it’s your pain.
But what does it matter to you
sitting there not knowing why, or where?
You’ll get through it, son, you will.
You’re special, like everybody else and
death is there for you too, so don’t worry
there’s always somebody who cares
enough to put you in the stretchy plastic bag
after being photo-shopped for; after
your environmental fee is duly paid.
Oh please! Don’t get up; don’t thank me.