Crisis in the White House


When Power becomes a man
with too much money,
he walks without seeing.
Bluffed by the mistaken agility
of each lucky stride,
he pats the thick assurance
of his bulging wallet,
believes things are
looking up in the world.
Too impatient to learn
the lyrics of hymns by heart,
he makes up words
to add to the song of coins
jingling in his pocket,
sings it in the shower,
at meetings, on the street.
Content in ignorant bliss,
he does not notice that
his choices are certain proof
that nothing has changed—
Good and Evil still wrestle
on back lots and in boardrooms
until someone’s nose is bloodied.
Cruelty still sneers at the needy,
waits in corners for the weak
to come too close to run.
Deceit still cheats, rewrites rules,
sells lies as page-grabbing truth.
Greed still pawns other people’s
tools rather than follow women
into the garden to work.
And when flush with wealth,
Power still strides past the faces
of Compassion and Justice,
certain he has seen it all,
because the acid fire of too much
of everything has left him blinded.

by Anne McCrady

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