Oats in the Manure

At the end of the Civil War, a dead Confederate could lie in the sun a week and not turn.

Skin held. Starved past rotting — picking corn out of the officers’ horses’ manure to stay upright one more day.

That was supper.

Union boys — well-fed — bloated, blackened, burst in the sun.

The line ran top down.

Officers ate.
The horses ate.
Horse turds in the road.

The men with the rifles got down on their knees,
And picked the kernels out.

Different uniforms now.

Same road.

The men up top take their cut.

They feed it to whatever the horse is called this quarter — the fund, the firm, the holding company, the brand.

The horse eats.
The horse always eats.

What drops out the back is what trickles down.

They have a name for it.

They put it on a poster.

A rising tide.

How’s the grocery bill?

Gasoline?

Health care?

Rent?

Ultra-rich people don’t care.

Because they don’t know.

They don’t try to know.

Some have never known.

So keep voting for them

.
Keep picking the oats out of the manure.

Your decision.