UncleI hope I live long enough to watch
My uncle as he dies, broke and broken,
In a bed, a line of visitors outside.
The most will be embittered victims,
Kneeling, knees upon his chest,
Describing what he's done to them,
Or those they loved or once had hoped
Would try to bring them better lives.
“You killed my son!” “You overthrew
The government which wouldn't
Knuckle under to your businessmen!”
“You armed the ones who tortured me!”
And on and on ad infinitum, foreigners
And those with insufficiently white skins
Alike, and, after these, the cringing
Toadies. “Don't die now. We need
Your money, and your guns, and your
Excuses. When you're gone, we, too,
Will die.” I'd like to laugh, and say,
“I hope so.” I'm no longer so naive
As to believe that those who suffer
Will be saved when he is gone,
But, when he dies, and when his
Allies also perish, I'll be happy.
One old shit will be interred.
The future, then, may brighten some,
And my own culpability will, at last,
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2019-01-29 at 12:43
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