in the room
professional women
their prime painted on
strung with incomes of gold
family heirlooms
carbon fractured to sparkle
clothed in animal-print faux fur
bounty of the bargain hunters
hand weave acquired
on the last tour of the world
and all its islands
bags designed by the
wealthy for the wealthy
(they know how much
a bag should contain)
rest beside shoes
designed for comfort
gold badged and stamped
with a Spaniard’s name.

the afghani woman asks
what are you doing in my country
where criminals and killers and drug lords rule
where women
are shot like birds
and men seek
US dollar compensation
for their loss
less than a house
and a bit more than a donkey

Coral Carter (Western Australia)

1 comment:

  1. I know that room. Travelling to lands of poverty and oppression, flaunting my wealth and freedom (no more deserved or rightfully mine) with a disregard simply rude or downright obscene. What am I doing? Being useful? Great poem, Coral.


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