Overheard. Poem by Morgan Michaels

'My poor country', groaned Shanna, obviously born elsewhere. 'Your national policies are killing it! '

'Why, what's wrong with them' wondered her lady friend. 'Killing it? Howso'?

'All the creatives are enticed here. That's what's wrong with it'.

'And, why not. This is where the money is. Why shouldn't they leave their hum-drum little countries for the land of the free. That way, they won't stay home and make trouble. Why shouldn't they flee corruption, persecution in countries where they have to work hard and pay huge taxes. What's wrong with a little American-style opportunity? '

'You don't understand', complained Shanna. 'Then, the country becomes a backwater. All the talent goes. All the energy! Think of it! '

Offended, her friend cut her short.

'Stop it right there, she cried. 'I'm an American. Thinking is not something we do! In fact, the less, the better.'

She paused. But, she soon geared up, again.

'Look- think of the crazies we siphon off, the dys-functionals- from everywhere- that feed our disability industry.- all at the expense of the tax-payers. Do you mean to say that doesn't help? Poor country, indeed.'

'You're right, of course. I don't know what got into me. A fit of idealism, or something.

'See', said her friend. 'Never ask an American to think. We're much better at empathy. In fact, we have the market on it.'

'Forget I said it.'

'No harm.'

Put that way, Shanna had to agree.


Put that way, I didn't know what to believe.