Sadness

And the strangest thing
Is that you let them.

Yes, you—you sitting there smiling
As they make their ridiculous demands
On your peace and quiet,
That band of political pirates.
And you walk away,
You walk away somehow proud—
Like a teenage girl who let him
Go too far.
They’re raping you,
Little girl.

Spiritually ravaging you.
How could you let them?
Because, you know, this is
Very avoidable: God only waits
For you to say the word…
Silence.
And I sit, dissolved into a corner,
Letting them laugh on in the thunder
Of their excrement,
Watching as they take everything from you.
Your ancestor’s heirlooms,
Your kid’s candy.
Sometime down the road they’ll
Beat you up and take your clothes.

How? Or why does it take place?
This conformation to foreign fashion,
This imitation of their inattentive conception,
Their desecrating cartoons of your
Holy confession?
(The neighbor’s muddy dogs running
Rampant across your poor mother’s kitchen floor.)
Why do you act like they want you to?
Why do the girls give up like that?

I’ve yelled these questions into
Mirrors and madhouses.
I always end up insane.

And the craziest thing
Is that you let them.