“Billionaires have added about $1 trillion to their total net worth since the pandemic began.” – Washington Post
On a drizzly morning walk I stopped to let a hearse go by,
its pitch-black paint sweating polish, and as I waited
for the procession I thought about who profits from tragedy,
the business of loss, and who profits no matter what,
who, having reserved the choicest funeral plot, knows its value
will rise, even in death, whose children inherit the belief that
the soil is for sale—and if the soil, then why not the air,
why not the sun, why not the universe itself?—who is driven
home from the womb and back to the dirt on leather-wrapped
seats, who leads a leather-wrapped life, who is first to be treated
and first to be vaccinated, who, early to learn of a pandemic,
buys up all the coffins, whose guile makes the markets swoon,
who understands what love will drive people to do, what they’ll
pay for a final hug, squeeze of the hand, nap inside the deep, deep earth.
