Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
The slaves have gone.
Euripedes, Thucycles;
the slaves have not gone.
The slaves have left their
robes and linens.
Their guitars and banjos
are leaning on the fence.
The slaves take down
the senator’s eye
and in place
put in the olive seed.
They eat and sleep in
the commoners’ homes,
the track houses and
cheap apartments,
not starting a revolution
that starts a revolution.
The slaves.
No one wants to work today.
Is it going to be that kind of day,
where all the people line up outside
along buildings,
buildings with red bricks
and discuss politics?
Politics are working, and so are people.
Who is unfortunate to not work,
to not be a part of the system?
Who is that sad faced woman over there,
disheveled and confused in the sun,
plastic bags wrapped around her feet,
a couple hairs on her chin,
searching
for food in the parking lot of a superstore?
The superstore is working so far,
with people working in it.
More people will work with smiles now
because the day before,
when people didn’t want to work,
is over,
and
in a new town
these people are happy to work.
They work for their living.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 