Opprobrium

OPPROBRIUM

People never want to get lost anymore.
Damn shame, really.
That’s how we found that hidden mural in the North End,
learned how to blow glass,
started listening to fugazi
and fell in love.

I want to help, really I do.
That’s why I ripped
the odd pages from your atlas,
sucker-punched your GPS,
and that is why
you ended up in Dorchester
when you asked for directions
to Fenway Park.

People never want to get dirty anymore
which is a pity,
because that is how we ended up
sleeping under shooting stars,
how we grew miles worth of calluses,
and getting dirty is the only way
to truly appreciate clean.

In order to assist, I extended myself,
hid your keys in the compost heap,
spit in your face and called it a kiss,
decorated your kitchen with dirty dishes,
and left stains in your salted, twisted sheets.

People are deathly afraid of being hungry anymore,
sadly enough,
that is how we counted the miles
on our bony ribcage,
humped boxes of produce
in order to score some lettuce
and collapsed on Heartbreak Hill.

But I am here for you,
so I squeezed the grapes of wrath
and drank the juice,
bleated sheep-like
into the drive-thru microphone,
and brought wine to the brewery.

People are always tired,
and that’s too bad,
because that is why we yawn
when celebutants act like fools
or wars in foreign lands intrude.

We roll over and hit the snooze when
children die from neglect,
or a stray bullet
intended for a teenager,
or a parent ill-equipped to cope.
We find the cool side of the pillow
rather than get dirty, or lost, or hungry.