dystopian coffee

while making coffee,

I heard a loudspeaker split the air,

that particular kind of loud

That doesn’t ask, only announces.

It preached good news to the streets,

and for a moment

I felt I was inside a dystopian film:

truth broadcast at full volume,

meaning turned up, mercy turned down.

I wondered—

Is this what they need?

Or what we’ve decided they need?

Because in this town

Poverty kneels on one side of the road

while opulence reclines on the other,

one hand sorting trash for tomorrow’s meal,

The other booking first-class flights

just because they can.

And somewhere between them—

us.

The middle ones.

Trying to care.

Trying to critique.

Growing weary

speaking cynicism like a second language.

The roads tell the story better than we do:

dust and potholes,

SUVs gliding past autorickshaws

stuffed with bodies and breath,

metal and muscle and patience.

The loudspeaker keeps preaching.

The gospel echoes off cracked walls,

off people already fluent in noise.

The homeless, their bodies slumped too still—

They know the real message.

They’ve seen the camera angle.

They’ve heard the slogan before.

Maybe they’ll come today—

once a week, once a year—

to feed, to pose, all for the gram-

Then they’ll leave in pressed clothes,

trailing French perfume,

heading to church,

to worship,

to feel good again.

It really does feel like a sci-fi movie,

Or maybe this is the part, this is it.

As for me,

I did nothing.

I sat with my homemade iced Americano,

dark, diluted, cooling fast,

sipping slowly

Weary

Worried

Waiting.

"let the wise stay silent for the days are evil."

Amos 5:13