Disposable People - A Poem

We are the disposable people.

We hold no elected office – we can’t afford the filing fees.

We are not the wealthy elite – we do not stand behind the curtain, pulling the strings.

We don’t belong to the club.

Our children don’t attend exclusive schools.

We can’t afford to make a donation, and we don’t serve on your board.

Our families are middle class, or lower-middle class, or lower-lower class, based on your system of democracy. 

Every four years, you seek us out.

 

You clamor for the common man to serve on your campaign committee. You know, to reach the masses. 

You tell us we are influential.

You buy us lunch.

You answer our questions in a manner that is palatable to our sort.

We believe that you care about our lot, if only for a moment. Long enough to champion your cause.

Then you disappear – win or lose.  You disappear.  We were never meant to associate, after all. It’s understood. It’s called ‘strategy.’

We wake up and punch in at 8AM.

You vacation in Cabo to detox from the campaign. 

Your wife returns to her book club and the PTA.

Our spouses return to being the receptionist at the clinic or the retired professor or the equal rights activist facing taunts and editorials from your campaign donors.

Our shoes will cushion our tired feet as we canvas for another candidate during the next cycle.

We will create art that protests your votes in the legislature, and we will sit uncomfortably in the teachers’ lounge while we discuss our disappointment with your latest vote.

Then comes the call – “How are you? How’s the family? Election season is upon us – can I count on your support again?”