Forget about It
by Mary Shanley
I feel this burning under
my left armpit and begin
to worry that the chemicals
in my deodorant are causing
cancer. I wonder how much
longer I have until I begin
to waste away?
But then I forget about it
and head into the living room
to drink my morning coffee
and read the latest horrific
developments in the world.
I immediately begin anguishing
over the plight of the Syrians,
the Afghans, the Yemeni and all
the other oppressed people of the world.
And feel guilty about being
a white American, who really
doesn’t have it so bad and what
can I do to change the hellish
activities of business and
government?
But then I forget about it
and reach over for another swig
of this dynamite blend of Sumatra
and Kenyan coffee beans that Lisa
ground for today’s brew.
Thank God my wife is such a coffee
freak. It’s like we live in our own
coffee bar. The freezer is always
stocked with beans from: Africa,
Central America, Mexico and
Indonesia.
And as I walk into the kitchen
for a refill, I think about the
miniscule wages the workers earn
to pick the coffee beans and
suddenly the whole issue
of exploitation looms larger
than life and I suddenly feel
helpless about: the government,
global health crisis, global
warming, human rights violations,
famine and genocide.
I should probably go volunteer
at the local Amnesty International
office or, at least, write a letter to one
of those shitty dictators, so that, maybe,
one day, a political prisoner may see
the light of day.
But then I forget about it
and start searching the want-ads
for some kind of job, hopefully
working for people who are
enlightened to the fact that the most
efficient way of running a business
is to love your employees, because
people respond to love by producing
more work with more care.
And I wonder why more people
aren’t hip to love in the workplace
But then I forget about it
When this wild-eyed woman
runs square into me on the sidewalk.
No apology. No nothing.
I hate her. Matter of fact I hate her
so much I consider running after
her and confronting her with her
asshole ways, but then I imagine
her decking me with one punch
and blood spurting out both of my
nostrils and nobody on the street
stops to help me.
This being the image I conjure
I drop the anger and begin to
inhale love. And as I cross 14th
Street, I notice a Zapatista poster
and wonder how much longer
it will be until the oppressed
people of the world unite
and take over the United States.
Forcing all the uncool whites
into the backbreaking work fields
where they will slave the day away
singing classic rock songs and
drinking Snapple.
Modern Literature Magazine, 2015
Hobo Code Poems, 2008
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