Man, he was laying it on iron thick. As they do. Man. Men.
When they had something to prove. Back in the day.
But never dealt with it then. So here he is now.
Finger painting for about four young faces a pastel utopia
that somehow ends with him richer than all of them
and us somehow happy about it.
Like a toddler does, he said our heads had been brainwashed,
green paint between fingers and a dash of red on his cheeks.
See, these are the trees. There is the sun.
Here is you and me. Look closely. He says.
Closer so you’ll see.
Look at the expressions on your smudged finger traced faces.
I painted you smiling you silly young shits.
somehow liberally biased,
wonderful young people
who really are good friends and family.
I love you. I really do.
I wanted to say that,
in spite of needing to.
This was nice. Everyone needs to have chats like this.
You, and your flimsy words of food for the world.
And him. Yelling at you for considering it. Socialist.
Communist. Bleeding heart food is a right political
upheaval might be possible in a lifetime idealistics.
You possibilists. And your overactive imaginations.
Watching profit margins like a weather report with the world on fire.
He knows we will get around to putting it out. Eventually.
It’s just that every year with the world on fire,
the price of water rises.