Xenoponoeion

I discover the pain-meter—

it means I weigh humanity

by the stance taken towards suffering.

But illness is not currency

to be cashed in.

Each day the spine slides,

limping along the course of toil,

trading wounds for goods

from the shelves of abundance.

It drags itself through hotel basements

alongside other polished servants.

It eats in kitchens—petrol stations—

to later climb to the gleaming high rooftops,

smiling submissively

at the masters—the tourists.

And when the lights go out,

legions of human mice

rush—under the threat of the whip—

to feed on the leftovers of the wealthy.

Will the day ever come

when master and servant

eat from the same table?

On which pool will my soul rest

after death, O’Lord?