For My Father and my Son

This world was never a home
For me or you

It passed within,
Reaching
Then through us,
Collected its wages
And was gone.

It did not decide to be “for”
Or “against” us
It had no real will of its own
It did not pray for us
Or provide a license
For its transitory amusements.

It was full of fear and longing
Long before we were gifted
With reason.
And its “goodness”
Turned a more severe judgment

A more complicated contract
Then its “passion”
Or its “ignorance”
Against us,
Just to mock our
Meager attempts
To be kind and tolerant.

And now
On this fully furnished plant
The heart turns cold
And wicked
Not against the outcast

But the smiling merchants
Of what is correct
Always trying to improve you
Tell you what to think or eat
How to behave
Saturated with admiration
And false prestige
They are less than the prisoners
We have become
Unto the Lord at least our lives are glorious
Our souls survive.

Robert Richkin

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