The Worker and the King

Often I hear the kings complain
About how much they do
How much they work
And then they add
Those who are poor,
Deserve it
Because they don't
Do what we do
They shirk
hard work

Have you noticed
Oh mighty kings
The faces of these
shirking workers
Have you wondered
Ever
What their dreams and fears are

Can you tell
One face from another?
Or are these shirkers all bodies
Dark skinned, calloused hands
Who smell of the earth
And not of Frangipani essences
That come out of colorful bottles.

Can you tell people from people
Can you tell when at your door the guard changed
Swiftly, quietly?
Can you tell that the woman who served you tea
And cleaned your bathroom yesterday
Is not the same woman today?


Did you stop to wonder where she went
Was there trouble
Did she get sick of being invisible
Or did she give up smiling

We who have been brought up to be kings
Soulless, blind and without hope or courage
Who have not known a day's hunger
Or what it means to go through the world
As just a body

Who are we to stand at our windows
Listening to our false oracles and gods
To pronounce this judgement
On those who are not us?

Shame on you mighty kings
In your cowardice and selfishness
You have lost your humanity
You are the ones
Who are undeserving.

And surely someday
You will see
That the world is no longer yours
It has been taken from you
By the workers who
Built it in the first place.