by Kidd Riddell

Dear God, please tell Santa
to be careful this year. Not
much south of the pole (you
know it’s melting) is stable.

The government isn’t helping,
the companies are using us up,
and my neighbors live in the street,
because rent is relentless.

Dear God, the cops? They paint
the streets with our blood. They
want compliance, but offer no
grace. When can we be whole?
(Never were.) Could be? [But]
Never were.

Help? From somewhere? They tell
us it is coming, but I’m not brave
enough (yet) to try. The water is
in the pot, and I watch. When it’s
time, the tea will steep.

Kidd Riddell writes about class in America. He hopes Jeff Bezos hits a satellite on his way out of the atmosphere.

Image by Leroy Skalstad from Pixabay.

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