A World of Good
I bought “a world of good.” Now look at me,
another brick cemented in a wall.
“A world of good.” I hear that litany
from every side. The mortar presses all
around, except my back’s against concrete,
my face is scorched by sun and raked by wind
and, winters, frostbitten. Across the street
another wall of brick frowns back, thick-skinned
and dull-eyed as my own. “A world of good”
the brickyard owners and the bankers hum
as workers dig, or, underneath a hood,
bake native clay. A foolproof stratagem
worldwide. What floor is this? You mock my view.
It’s all good for somebody. Tell me who.