The Tipping Point

 The Tipping Point

Oh, golden thrones atop the hill,

How high you sit, how still, how still.

The middle quakes but dares not rise,

Afraid to lose their compromise.

So who’s left to tip the scales?

Not the boardrooms, nor the cocktail tales.

No, it’s us—the single moms, bruised and worn,

With kids who see the world in scorn.

The vet who fought, then fought again,

But battles shadows in his den.

The worker hooked on pharma’s plan,

A busted back, a broken man.

You think your fortress stands so tall,

But gravity, dear, affects us all.

It’s not the storms, but the steady drip,

That cracks the base and sinks the ship.

We are the tide, the undertow,

The seeds you’ve sown, the weeds that grow.

You built your castles on our pain,

We’ll tear them down, brick by disdain.

Not because we crave your crown,

But to stop the weight that drags us down.

For while you feast and laugh and scoff,

Our bones, they break, our skin, it sloughs.

So laugh now, kings, while still you can,

The fall begins with the smallest hand.

A mom, a vet, a worker’s cry—

And that’s the sound of your goodbye.