Devon Balwit’s most recent poem to appear here was “what words?” (December 2016)

Fine Line
By Devon Balwit

            do not brandish the stump
            over the heads of others
            don’t knock with the white cane
            against the windows of the well-fed

                                    (“Mr. Cogito Meditates on Suffering,” Zbigniew Herbert)

All day long, the videos stream.
In some, animals frolic;
in others, they starve.

I never know until I look
which will be requested—
a coo, or a cringe.

If they send too much suffering,
I will unfriend them.
They know this,

so they skirt the edge—
kitten, kitten, emaciated tiger,
bulldog, baby, squalid cow.

One salts to taste,
but whose? Just how much misery
opens the purse without closing the window?

We see too much,
have trained ourselves
to frame anguish as spectacle,

praising the uploader
for moving us, while leaving
the afflicted in chains.

Poor things
to be born into suffering
in an age of Likes.

A simple click
feels like action, stands in
for taking a stand.