Peasants
We don’t use the word peasants much in the USA
although the vast majority of us are.
Forget the designation of middle class.
Lower and upper. Once we had a working class.
A few remain, endangered species like bald eagles,
gray wolves, California condors.
A murmuration of starlings, a murder of crows,
a quarrel of sparrows, we are the peasants of North America.
Living paycheck to paycheck, one flat tire away from disaster.
We lose our teeth, eat fast food, drive fast cars
for the thrill of the moment, wind in our hair.
We treat our mood disorders with Cheetos,
Jim Beam, and Milwaukee’s Finest.
Amateur porn remains free, despite
high risk of digital virus.
Forget health care, as doctors won’t
give us pain pills anymore.
Diet and exercise.
Try jogging after cleaning thirty rooms in twelve hours
at The Fairfield Inn & Suites for $12.50 per hour.
Try free weights after stapling insulation to two-by-four studs
in Plant City, Florida at ninety-eight degrees and ninety-two percent
humidity in July at two o’clock in the afternoon.
How’s your portfolio? someone asks
during a commercial on Shark Tank.
Mr. Wonderful laughs at your profit margin.
Speaking of numbers, ninety-six percent of poetry
is created by peasants with nothing to lose.
Defeated in all aspects but imagination.
The beautiful almond eyes of the mouse
at three a.m. in the living room,
poking his head out from under the couch
to the poet who shares his home,
food with a fellow peasant.