Seattle - A General Strike

My tongue tastes only ash,

the first victim of a Strike so early. 

Coffee was my salvation.

Beware of Judas. 

The steps of the fish market, 

receding for months, 

now close themselves off, 

warding away my disciplined hunger. 

Serving your country,

lauded in feigned idolatry 

by factory owners and politicians,

rescinds from cultural eyesight

once crisis exhales its final gasp. 

forcing us to return 

behind the blinded periphery. 

Solidarity is illegal. 

Embracing my fellow American 

with love, care, and concern,

is illegal.  

Wiping away the tears, 

of my starving, sickly child, 

earnestly promising 

“This struggle shall pass.” 

is illegal.

Unless, of course, wealth courses through your rich bloodline.  

Unless, of course, estates never leave your ancestral possession.

Unless, of course, “tighten your belts” heralds great profit.

Unless, of course, state sanctioned solidarity lines your coffers. 

We, laborers, simply request, 

simply demand, 

if we are to return to the front lines, 

our wages are thawed and unfrozen. 

Few, but the fish, 

earn that,

I suppose.

Before their heads 

are

chopped.

We share similar fates. 

Equity, 

but in the hands of the landed, 

is a perverse 

frame of mind.

My body feels solely detached,

the last victim of a Strike so late. 

My country was my salvation. 

Beware of Judas.

Michael Carney