Protest

A sonnet about the horror of having the things you love taken from you.

Protest


Imagine money flung down a mineshaft,
a waterfall of coins, slow-dancing notes
and uncashed cheques, a gush of currency
dumped out of diggers (and all of it yours)
by workmen who look slightly bored; and when
you cry they give you a look that says Why
do you care? It’s only money, and to
show you how little it matters they turn
out their pockets, remortgage their houses
and hurl their money with yours in the hole
then say See? It’s nothing to us. We don’t
care. Why should you? I use the example
of money but it works for anything:
your car, your clothes, your job, the ones you love.