No Meter, No Rhythm & Some Crimes

“Ernest Hemingway would scarcely be, nor would he covet being, a man of letters; one presumes that he has never tolerated the kind of education which would have made the meters resound in his consciousness. And we approve of that. We say to ourselves that this bare unrhythmed prose of his is the most transparent medium yet invented for the pure art of fiction.” – John Crowe Ransom, “The Art of Prose,” The New Republic, October 6, 1952

in the room to my right,
a thin wall dividing us,
i hear my daughter teach
basic english one on one
to japanese children & adults

it's her version of the daily grind
that she does online from home,
only that her hours are from
five thirty p.m. to midnight,
with quick peeing breaks

in the room where i sit
i tap out lifeless words
for a livelihood & survival piece
that with hope & faith
will ensure that by summer
there will be enough wherewithal
to fill up the coin purse that empties
contents in a continuous flow enough
to make standard & chartered blanch

whenever the tv news comes on
all i hear is of justice supreme
that will never happen

once public servants deny
having lined their & their missus's
pockets for private luxuries

without shame their ilk have helped
themselves to monies from taxpayers
that the daily grinders pay:
the cabbie who saw me safe to my door,
the sweaty cook who fans live coals to get
our order of chicken inasal ready,
the daughter who raises baby sitter's pay

even the taxes withheld from
this flailing citizen
who now understands why down south
without seeming provocation
some folks turn amok

--Babeth Lolarga