Priorities

I see your hands, cold in winter,  

the meter ticking down like a clock  

winding towards empty. The TV  

flickers with news you don’t trust,  

faces you don’t know,  

and your anger pools in the cracks of the floor.  

I understand.  

But listen—this is not the fault  

of the stranger with hollowed-out shoes,  

the mother clutching her child in a doorway,  

the man who speaks in a tongue unfamiliar.  

They do not turn the key in the Treasury,  

do not cut the funding like a butcher  

paring fat from the bone.  

The government keeps its hands clean,  

shuffles blame like cards in a rigged deck.  

You watch the numbers rise—  

bills stacked high like the promises  

they made and forgot.  

I understand.  

But don’t let them point your fury sideways  

when it should be aimed up.