Revolutionary Air

The revolution proceeds
in sunlight
and morning cold.

Its exhaled cloud
is rising freely while mine,
condensing indoors, costs me dearly.

I’d consider losing 
more than a few coins
and heartbeats

for the wherewithal
to get out there
into the open air

where the action is.
But instead I’m here
because I have to be.

I tell myself if I can hold my breath a while,
something will change;
the bills will shrink, the accounts

will swell.  I’ll get out
from under the weight of 
hermitage and shackles.

But that’s just more
wasted breath.  A revolution
underway, and despite the slogans

I’m not a part of it, of them;
I’ve got a feeling
I never will be. So I exhale

and bend back to the tasks
at hand, the minute torture
of getting by,

wishing the revolution’s air
would sweep in
and clear this stale room.