Eight

We are better than this.

We are better than this.
Observation or imagination?

We are better than this.
Twenty-four carat certified
path just barely tightrope wide
between those two. Show me
anything solid for either
and I will kiss your feet,
make you my idol.

We are better than this.
Aspirational, delusional?

We are better than this.
Are you? Am I? I can’t tell.
There’s such a difference
between the ways we are
that better means nothing
or less — what were we,
what have we been?

We are better than this,
in spite of every last nail
in every bed we’ve been asked to lie on.
In spite of all the people around us
soothed by the hammering.
In spite of hammers, and nails,
and the majority
who can’t even admit they’re bleeding
from the pressure and the points
and the constantly broken skin
of their backs.

We are better than this.
Say it until
you choke on it,
and then
what?