i can’t help but wonder
when i see your smile and
feel your self-worth oozing
through your fabrics
and hear you on the pulpit
biting the heads off the
daisies with such dreadful
and precise repitition:

if this were gaza,
would you be dead?

and if it were

and you were alive

would you drive that

Ford Excursion?

would you import it
on your peasant’s wage
and walk around shaming
everyone for not
saving as you had?

would you be so loud
with a mouth full of sand
or blood?