3103. TOO MANY FOOLS AT TOO GREAT A PRICE

TOO MANY FOOLS AT
TOO GREAT A PRICE
You say something, and it gets lost
in the roar of this nibbling crowd: all
gracious losers, pushing hard against this
counter, this food line, this betting window
where no one redeems a ticket. I should
just as quickly see the Formica shine from
off this plastic grate than find a dose of
goodness or allegiance in any of this rabid
hate. I wouldn't shake the hand outstretched
of even one here sent and filled with glory
and money and lust. No, there's just nothing
there. Outside the place we stand I see the
dense green foliage of hedgerow and trees,
a manicured lawn of vast proportions, kept
in line and guarded by minions of mower and
cleave. They cut the sky, they trim the trees,
from buckets with saws and power on high.
Small cars rounding the perimeter police and
retrieve the trash and the dirt. Everything
perfect is in its place - for nothing more than
these : forty thousand foul souls leftover from
Hell, forty thousand cheering throngs of ones
and singles, attracted couples and married
fools. They link their loins to procreate.
They bet these horses, they wait this wait.
'Let the servants procure for us whatever it
is we wish. We shall soon be awash in riches.'