Buried
A poem on suicide
In America we measure wealth
by having more than somebody else,
we will step idly over and around
the legs of those who live without homes,
while knowing ourselves
that Epstein didn't kill himself.
The streetlights burn behind magnified glass,
open tunnels traversed between shadows
between sidewalks between roads,
a fear lurks in these skeletal bones
that even the slightest misstep
might have us lost again in the mess
knowing that Epstein didn't kill himself.
Every day is a lotto machine sifting
numbers painted to ping-pong balls
shuffled on unseen currents of jubilant air,
and we wait for the winner
to raise his penciled in card of wealth,
but Epstein still didn't kill himself.
They talk of evidence, of fake news and fact,
they talk of witch hunts, of being attacked,
but their tactic continues : distract distract
distract from what dead rabbit
gets pulled next from their hat, what's left
other than knowing Epstein didn't kill himself.
The crowd mingles madly with itself
oblivious to the multitudes
of murderers meandering within inches
of each others' deaths,
the hidden holsters, handles,
and hands holding the strings of health,
pulling threads like Epstein didn’t kill himself.
