Everyone scrambles to the top
of the JENGA blocks
and tries not to blow away
(which is hard for a husk of a human hollowed out one grasping handful at a time).
But the howling wind atop the towers cannot topple them. They
Are held down by a lightless power,
A gum-like goo stuck to their shoes that creeps up their legs to their
Heart, inflates them like a balloon.
But before their heads explode with the stuff
They scream, “We will never be finished.
All is never enough.”
Level 0 of the JENGA block tower,
The Have-Nots are having their way—hammering away at the foundations—
giving chaos its way.
A little while now and the big shot bobble-head
Raining his sick ambition down
The Have-Nots will have their fill and –that not being enough—will
Devour each other on their way to the top
And as a new wave scampers up the tower,
Feeling their chests inflated and a certain
New grip in their toes,
The blocks will shift and the structure buckle
And the tower will slowly go.
Except for the Littles.
So small and unimpressive, bracing each other, back to back,
They hold the tower barely standing
About to crush the masses.
The Littles are hollow too,
Gutting themselves long ago, but a song
Echoes from inside them,
Stretching out from their cavities, refracting endless empathy