Charles Harper Webb
It’s Hard Not to Hate the Tottering
granny, slammed to the sidewalk,
purse yanked off her arm; the thin boy
dragged into the woods, stabbed,
and sodomized. Don’t blame the victim,
we hear and hear; yet it’s so clear
Jim was a dolt to buy that “inherited” car;
Jane was a chump to trade hard cash
for soft swamp-land. What good
are brains if they can’t purify the blood?
What good are sprouts and tofu
if they can’t stop a lone drunk’s minivan?
What good are strength and confidence
if they can’t keep misfortune’s wheelchair
from my door? I hate victims because
their attention lapsed, they wore KICK ME,
they walked so tentatively nuns lined up
to mug them. I hate their failures
of foresight, their frail and flaccid limbs.
And when victimhood hits me, I hate myself;
that’s why my wails go on and on . . .
