An Alchemy of Words

Gucci pro Patria Mori

"Gucci pro Patria Mori"

Black man, crawling,

bone thin and weak,

dying in Time magazine

to sell subscriptions,

maybe a little food

at McDonald's on the way home

from the magazine rack,

He's probably dead now,

the photographer kicking him

out of his misery

after the perfect picture

for the perfect magazine

that the perfect Boss ran

back in Toronto in an office building

that had three cafeterias

and a million lifetimes' worth

of bottled water.

The photographer kicked the man,

brittle bones breaking and cracking

and shattering.

He must have kicked him with a star reporter's

Gucci loafers which,

bloodied now, he removed and

threw to God,

hoping that somehow, for

some obscene, starving reason,

God would hurl those blood-stained loafers back

to Earth, striking

the Boss

in his office tower at

the very moment

he first blinked at that black man who crawled,

bone thin,

weak and dying

as he made his way

timelessly

across the photograph,

bare seconds before the kick

that sold a million issues,

gained ten thousand new subscriptions

and made the Boss a billionaire,

twice over,

one short and naked moment

before death.