Our madly rich, the ones who think themselves above the law,
imagine we regard their lives of privilege with awe,
and, truth be told, we do watch all their antics with a sigh,
but one that translates, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
Her poet praised in print her every feature,
and so evoked a picture-perfect creature
with whom she never could identify:
a wraith as much a rival as a lie.
“We knew we’d had it
backwards . . . ”
We knew we’d had it backwards all along,
knew brutal strength was weak and weakness strong,
and understood that might no more made right
than moral stature had to do with height—
but, knowing all that, still chose not to change.
And thought less than you’d think that that was strange.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Robert West would be
pleased to hear them.