Birds in a Gilded Age
When the boat from Ireland
to America came ashore at Ellis
Island, I had my Maine Coon cat
with me. Coon cats are the biggest
cats but they’re not fat.
I became a citizen during the time
Americans had learned there’s less
blood on the pillows if they elect
a revolution rather than fight one.
Thus began the FDR years—
Revolutionary ideas
instead of revolving door cronyism.
Of course, fat cats stay fat by eating meals
meants for others.
They are not Maine Coon cats. Fat cats
won’t diet; they’d rather die before giving up
their unneeded portions: I might get hungry
later, they’ll say, and besides, hunger makes
the hungry work harder, and hard work is what
made this fat cat fat.
That logic escapes me, being Irish.
Now the Gilded Age is back. The fat cats
fatter than they’ve ever been. All gathered
on one side of the boat.
So much fat, we’re at risk of tipping over
and Earth sinking.
hello dearest poet powerful poem I feel your pain ❤️
I suppose every generation had its fat cats and corruption. It’s inevitable and a shame.