Bounty

The bounty set,
the patrons wonder at the buffet.
In the corner someone is sick.
The table groans beneath the weight
of tonight’s choices:
platters heaped with soldiers' screams,
trays of guilt for the turned-away,
fullest breast of children lost—
lying thick in a greasy glaze
of smug self-satisfaction,
served with a side of
Hippocratic indifference.

Bitter though the fare,
the goal remains:
eat one more bite
than the man seated next,
that you may be martyred
to a higher bracket.

Some in tears, they sit and sup,
tuck into this meal with grim desire
and fill the corners
and wipe their mouths with their sleeves.

But I am not eating tonight;

There's an even better selection at the bar...