Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses

I
When streets are silent––
no sirens, no air whirring
through exhausts, no horns
to signal impatience or
perhaps a familiar face
I think about that day

When the Reaper arose,
looking for the kind hearted, 
the go-getters; the ones 
with potential.

II
The Reaper’s scythe poked
and prodded the streets
searching for someone
like you.

Scythe’s tip against
the back of your knees––
Guiding your legs. 
Guiding your body.
Coercing you.

Scythe’s tip against
your back, pushing––
until it lead you
to cross the road.

Until that car, too, 
became the Reaper’s tool.
It picked up speed
to pass a bus and
picked up––
your crushed bones
on its hood.

III
On the same day
rubber bullets killed a man.  
“A non-lethal alternative 
to metal projectiles”
but practice, often 
juxtaposes theory.

And our president
spoke that day, 
spoke words with no meaning. 
Spouted empty promises
to water ignorant minds.

Urged them to grow 
towards the ballot box
so he could use
their bean stalks
to climb his way up.

And that day, society wept for jobs. 
Not the 12,000 jobs lost at Anglo Platinum, 
nor the thousands of others lost–– 
to outsourcing, to exploited labor
to mechanization.

But wept for one.
Steve Jobs: Innovator. Savior. iGod. 
Who gave society a taste of the forbidden fruit. 
Who didn’t weep for those who died for his sins––
those who leapt from factory windows,
and were replaced before they hit the ground.

IV
My thoughts always
revert back to you
despite all the events
of that one day––

You

crossing the road,
heading who knows where.
Some arbitrary destination.
Head up,  smile on, 
Ambition in each step.

Drawn closer to the Reaper,
who waited, beckoning you
bringing you over
to his side.

V
Death’s plan
had been executed
and so had you.
That day, the Reaper
hit the jackpot 
and left this world bankrupt.