The Health Care Debate, or Too Little, Too Late

The old woman curdles on the sidewalk,
soured, in her dried up life,
and spasms, once or twice -
a stranger might interrupt his call,
or ambulance through the traffic crawl.

A child, with curly hair, sniffles, and wipes his nose,
as his songless mother coos in vain
to the infant confused by pain
and answers who will pay - who knows

And the man with the million dollar ears
spews his golden lard, and cannot hear.

For twenty, thirty year with hand and steam
the factory line, not sick a day, he worked
and then, oh just a little twinge, his back was fine -
though surgery takes its toll, and houses, too.

The doctor goes with stethoscope
from room to room dispensing hope,
then in the lexus of his luxury
at night, at home, he fears the healing touch
just out of reach, in worry, might slip away.

Listen to the story of rant and cant
or preserve our profit, our lies transplant.

And in the halls I hear them talk
of bitter pills, and chicken hawks
who blame disease upon the ill
and cure a fever with a chill.