Chicken Feet

Sure I remember.
I remember the smog, the grey sky,
and the soulless eyes.
The loudspeaker, the propaganda,
the fat men eating chicken feet atop the pagoda.
The finger prints on the bill as it was presented
as a bribe.
The heat and pressure that covered and baked and steamed cities only to produce lumps of 小笼包
with decayed meat and dirty shell.
So I don’t understand
why you all seem to love that hell.
You love it; you praise it.
Even when it was scratching you till you bleed;
Even when it was bleeding you dry;
Even when the destitute poor cry
and all the elite –
the “diligent” hard workers that “earned” all they had
it atop the pagodas eating chicken feet.

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