If you could concentrate
all the evil in the world,
all the way from the stone
to the crystalline torso
that shines pure hatred,
if that black were to flow
into a tiny inkwell,
our moneyman, sick of it all,
having burned his pile
and cursed its dying glow,
all he’s ever done to the land,
to the glory of the animal kingdom,
from the majestic to the humble bee,
the ocean, the little country
that forgot to pay the strong hand,
the encyclopedia of crime
and not just against humanity,
not just the present and the past,
his hands shaking over the sink,
his feet unbalanced on the slime,
if only he could pour it out
imagine our sigh of relief,
of gratitude, of collective hurrah.
Isn’t that a better legacy
than security on a roundabout?
Better than I told you so?
Benevolence, the forgotten word,
love from the weak, the warmth
of the good deed done right
for once from the top hero?