Where, if we could, would we send him,
this heartless ignorant shell of a man?
Someplace without clean running water,
neither hot nor cold, no water at all,
let him clean himself in the dust by the road
like a sparrow, but without feathers or beak.
Someplace where the sound of children crying
never stops, never settles into a groove,
continues randomly changing in volume and pitch,
mispronouncing his name, w for r.
Someplace far from the nearest golden commode,
out in the open air without a golf cart or limo,
his mincing feet pinched in his Gucci shoes,
silk shorts filling with liquid and solid filth.
Maybe no place at all, floating off like a bad smell,
wandering the earth like a recurring nightmare,
startling himself awake in a cold sweat,
falling back to sleep not remembering his name.
Maybe an even better no-place-at-all,
a point in Euclidean space,
dimensionless,
.
That is where I, at least, would send him,
if I thought that would solve the problem.
