Our Vendor Friends Poem by RIC BASTASA

So we keep on writing and writing or working and working, or playing and playing
we think we have the fun
or even the dedication to art and living

how foolish have we become

someone rakes the money. someone takes the
income from the sweat of our soul. someone reaps the fruits of our labor.
as we grieve. someone is laughing.
as we sink our eyes down to the bottom of our lamentations
someone out there sells the stories, sells the flowers,

sells us.