A poem I have waited thirty-one years to write

[rozk]

She has been sick so long that we forget
how much we hate her still, how ever much
her sense of self grows vague, or out of touch
with her bleak legacy she seems. And yet -

there is no yet, no pity. She was not
the kind to pity, thought such feelings weak,
the rust that eats the iron. You might seek
in vain for mercy in her. She forgot

so many things before she lost her mind,
that markets are just people, that no war
is ever won, that what has come before
always returns, and not to be unkind,

and so, no mercy to her. Watch her breath
stutter and fade, then drink toasts to her death.