Soap Box Preacher

The first rays of morning sunshine subtly
slide through the gaps of my eyelids and
penetrate each naked portion of iris
I blink out all the last remnants of sleep
and crawl out of my cardboard box to
see a fat lady singing the worlds funeral

She looks like a pot plant on her soap box,
kidnapping attention and lost thoughts
through rotten teeth and a broken voice box
While I’m just a victim of sorrow,
trapped and marked as a societal pathos

The more I hear her speak,
the more I realize that she’s lip syncing
a song originally written
by a form of humanity long lost
Moving her body in jitters as she speaks like a
reanimated corpse on her tired soap box

The corners of my eyes keep stinging,
My friend, this woman
tells stories that could send violin strings
And I cant keep listening,
The shakes are starting and my arthritis
is acting up from yesterdays cold

But she speaks soliloquies that solicit silence
I cant look away like a sadist staring at an act
of explicit violence
each word resurrects the essence of my
non existent pride
revitalizing my system and convincing me that
giants shouldn’t hide

Passing people throw change at her,
but she’s smart enough to tell apart
guilt from kindness,
Maybe one day humanity will find us,
and there’s hope for the pious,
So says this queen of the hobos
– address her as your highness

But She’s my love, my soap box opera singer.


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