Funhouse
By Dick Eiden
A pity such a sparkling world
fell into our clumsy hands, soiled
with petroleum and blood, slippery
as a swindler leaving town at night
past rows of homes for sale, scrawny
trees tied to stakes on the boulevard.
A pity our shoes were untied, our feet
not planted, we didn’t look up in time.
As the power grid blinks and sputters
we wait in long lines, owe money
to bail bondsman, can’t afford sandbags
for the rising of extreme consequences
murky and corrosive, lapping at our feet.
A pity we now stand before a full-length mirror
curved like the Funhouse, eyeing our big heads,
the flowing lines of our long, twisted bodies,
the crooked path behind us.
Dick Eiden is a retired lawyer and lifelong activist for peace and social justice. He came of age in the sixties, tried to make the world a better place, failed. He has three grown children (one grandchild) with wife Kathleen Cannon. He’s writing a memoir about his life as a lawyer for rebels titled Go Into Banking Instead.
Reading recommendation: Silent Spring by Rachel Carson.