There are always more
Where they have come from,
Like the poor who clog the planet
Out of mind until they touch us
Where it hurts.
No use changing channels:
Here they are again repeated
In the feel-good bit of news
That never is.
No use putting distance in between us:
They're like landscape seen in glimpses
From a skybus ten miles high:
We know it's ugly down below
Where local colour is a body
In a minefield,
Not the lilt of phatic chatter in the sky.
from The Sweeping Plain (River Road Press, 2007), © Michael Sharkey 2007, used by permission of the author and River Road Press