Yours Was a Fierce Fire

By Frederick B. Hudson

For a deceased liberal do-gooder

Conceived in fear of a rising, falling fable
Of wounds forgotten, of scars never touched,
The superiority of riches rubbed,  Presidents' faces slid
across glass counters,
To be bartered for light inside stones,
smoothness inside silk,
Mystery captured inside Gucci across shoulders.
The looks exchanged across cocktail parties that
"we are old money."

You once said with arrogance:
"I had a job once-
I sold sweaters."
the tone and tenor sex
of your voice spewed arrogance-
you knew you could quit anytime
and you and yours would never
need the warmth a sweater or a rent payment
could bring.

You exchanged looks often
When a thought not your own
Slipped into conference-
"Oh I must control this, I will take the thinker
to my home and he/she will be so awed they will not challenge me.
For I am the power and glory
Of privilege smelt before it arrives.

You brooked no talk
Of self reliance in your facilities-
You knew where your butter jar was filled,
So the cows would best stay in the pasture
And let no bulls lead them to freedom fields.

You became a do-gooder,
Reaching out to poor addicted mothers,
Sending them to the store for pate and water crackers
For your lunch
While your legs were waxed 
In view of eyes that glazed when they had their floor polished.

You curried favor with alternating kingpins
Standing, then falling in  political bowling alleys,
Never confronting them about the lives
They spilled red rose color on the streets
In the name of Just Us
Count in the census of contempt.

You are dead now.
The Times obituary spoke of your Congressional Testimony
It mentioned your awards,
It alluded to your scandals of misdirected funds,
It touched on your acrid divorce,

But it did not mention a single word
From a single ward or worker
Who said they wished they were there
With you
At the End.