The Saints Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We made this
Super-shopping gollum
Its eyes of gelt
We will not give to
Charity;
We own this trivial
Abomination
This fool's gold
Dragon;
It is our property,
Hoarded-
Our wife,
Our children,
The guilt we drive
Around in.
The Indian nations
Are destroyed
But free.
Pardoned-
My father works
50 Mexicans,
While Dirty Sancho
Washes my mother's
Back,
In the car, her garden-
How many Mexicans
Does your father work?