What is the value of life 
when governments murder,
like drug pushers 
in alleys, war profiteers 
in plush chairs, the foul 
smell of clotted blood
still on their fingertips. 
And why do we not throw 
bricks, when their lips speak 
of sacrifice, on days 
so unbearably sunny
it hurts, of war against 
a new virus, as if they haven't 
tripped in their wars 
against everyone. Always, 
it's money that gathers
at the river to help us 
choose our cemeteries. 

Here, the politician beckons, 
line up here to dig this 
rocky soil with your broken 
shovel. There, the finger 
points, line up there
to collect your toe tag.