Commie

You call me a communist
as if the insult
carried its own weight,
as if the idea that
everyone should have what they need
were blatantly ridiculous
and anti-American.
You say we all have to work hard for what we want,
as if you didn't know that the ones who work hardest
can't afford the luxury of wanting,
as if I didn't know that the ones who have that luxury
only know labor as an itemized deduction.
You say I have economics and politics confused,
that poverty is a social policy issue
and big business equals the American Dream,
and anyone, anyone can live that dream,
if he only works hard enough.

You say all that,
and I wonder how you can't see
that disadvantage means
there is someone with the advantage
,and power means there is someone without it,
and rigging the race and then calling it equal,
blaming those we fail for the failure,
is what the dream looks like up close.

You call me a commie
in your sums-it-up voice,
so you don't have to explain
how hunger and no health-care
aren't evidence of a system-wide flaw,
or how you can sleep in your big, warm bed
and never dream of the thousands toiling
to pay for a bowl of rice and
your private jet.

You call me a commie,
and I suddenly realize
that you really think I am a commie,
and that commies are the enemy,
and that the poor are poor because they choose to be,
and that you were born deserving everything,
and that poverty and hunger are issues best left
to be dealt with by bleeding-hearts like me.

You call me a commie and somehow,
I take it as a compliment.

Windy Kellems, 2007