Bounty

God knows there's enough to go around... and weeps for it

The bounty set,
the patrons wonder at the buffet.
In the corner someone is sick.
The table groans beneath the weight
of tonight’s choices:
platters heaped with soldiers' screams,
trays of guilt for the turned-away,
fullest breast of children lost—
lying thick in a greasy glaze
of smug self-satisfaction,
served with a side of
Hippocratic indifference.

Bitter though the fare,
the goal remains:
eat one more bite
than the man seated next,
that you may be martyred
to a higher bracket.

Some in tears, they sit and sup,
tuck into this meal with grim desire
and fill the corners
and wipe their mouths with their sleeves.

But I am not eating tonight;

There's an even better selection at the bar...