Tribunal for Monsanto and Dow

A Poem by Richard D. Hartwell

You are men of no reason, embenched,
intent, and only prepared to discourse
on any other subject of your selection.

Your self-assurance
only seems to be at peace,
with crossed legs, bent arms,
ramrod backs, stern visage:
body language closed to facts.

Have you heard me? –

Have you even seen me? –

Do you care about what I’ve said? –

Are you only pretending to listen? –

Are you just mollifying me,
waiting for me to breathe
so you can tell me where
I have gone wrong again,
how I have misinterpreted
your actions and words,
why I am at fault rather
than you, a no-fault clause;
let alone sharing blame or
facing your responsibility?

I cannot engage you
in further discourse as
you are no longer open to me;
and I am no longer your puppet.

You are men of mismatched parts,
amalgams with no emotion.

It is no longer my job
to piece your souls
back together.

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