Fettered Greed

You guard a prison. 

Your uniform crisp, creases and folds squared away neatly.

You demand discipline, orderliness, and the highest level of hygiene

from yourself and everyone around you.

In your prison

there is a block of cells many floors below ground level,

damp, windowless, solitary, it has been sanitized

and renamed: ‘Administrative Segregation.’ 

There you house greed. 

He is manacled and screaming, spittle frothing from his mouth. 

Somehow his words reach you,

through the heavy steel doors, down the corridors and up

the stairways, making demands.

It is your duty,

and you must from time to time check on this inmate.

It is a distasteful task because when you are near,

the shouting stops and becomes a whimper, entreating:

“Can’t I see the light of day

and breath the outside air?  It is inhumane to keep this way.

Please speak to me.  Let me speak to someone.  Let me touch someone. 

It is cruel. You are cruel.”

It is painful to hear,

Because it is true, you are cruel to keep him like that,

But if he is allowed into population, you know the result:

Chaos, riot, and bloodshed.