Hyena

The final poem I'll upload tonight, unless I find something old and actually like it. This one is simple and spiteful and really not particularly pretty. For the record, I have nothing against hyenas. I simply found someone's cackling simultaneously obnoxious and evocative of one.

Hyena

Hyena, I call, and I point one accusatory finger
in your general vicinity
and you howl your boisterous laugh,
pinwheel into a stack of cans assembled for minimum wage,
and hardly hear me at all,

because your father's money has you set
for top-floor offices,
penthouse suites in the boneyard,
six-figure finances, ordering computers,
tearing at sinew.

There is violence in your hands,
heavy and clawed,
clutching your clubs, holding your girls
too tightly,
rending them, hating them,

and what of us? We rot
in your graveyards,
hold our boyfriends with weak hands,
quietly ashamed, an equivalent exchange,
ears plugged with wax.