By now the Christ should have come,
Descending from an overcast sky in blinding light and argent fog,
To clothe the world in his beneficence.
Yet for many a day’s wages does not buy a day’s food,
An aleatory, brutal and anonymous existence,
While the one percent dine on wine and caviar,
Secure in their lavish homes.
Ars longa, vita brevis.
With open mouths we swallowed it,
Yet the taste remains pleasant
Both in our mouths and in our stomachs.
We are not friends of the human race;
We care not for the world.
That is why.
Surely there is a realm
Where rivers run with milk and coffee,
Where pastry air-light and honey-sweet floats down from the sky,
When we open our mouths in hunger;
Where no one is physically or mentally handicapped;
Where the tiger and the lamb both eat straw,
Cuddled together in the middle of Broadway and 42nd Street.
He will not come in our time, then.
Why doesn’t he come?
Copyright 2003 by Mark Andrew Holmes.