Ned Balbo
Confidential Report on the State of the Empire
Intercepted intelligence briefing originating abroad, ca. 2016
Few opportunities present themselves
at first glance, to the casual observer.
But take a closer look. The public smile
they wear behind the counter or the desk—
false cheer to face a future that they fear—
betrays a helplessness they can’t conceal,
and so, we cannot help but feel for them,
so wrong, sadly misguided in their myths
…Not that pity weakens our resolve.
How do they live? Distracted by their toys,
intrusive ads that promise new toys soon,
they trade their privacy for taking pictures
with the phones that track their every move,
and nothing’s real unless it’s photographed.
(We photograph them, too, and listen in.
They don’t care. That’s how passive they’ve become.)
Unmoored, they praise or mock the candidates
they vote for or against, celebrities
who spark disdain instead of empathy—
That’s key: the loss of empathy, I mean.
Both young and old lash out—in life, on-line—
on impulse, as if any point of view
besides their own is deeply dangerous—
(In this respect, I guess, they’re much like us.)
And these, remember, are the lucky ones,
occupied, employed. Others, worse off,
are everywhere and have no voice at all.
Deprived of shelter, jobs, tempered by loss,
they’re ready to tear down the palaces—
The least that we can do is lend a hand.
What holds them back? Not much: the rule of law.
Still, times have changed. They looked for heroes, once.
Now they’re on watch for defects, further proof
no one should govern them; that laws, like men,
too flawed to be obeyed, deserve their scorn
(and when they earn high office, women, too).
What brought them to this point is hard to say.
In God We Trust clings to their currency,
though few believe. The rest believe too much—
They’re sick of terror, constant vigilance
against a world that sees through their pretense,
and crave release, whatever form it takes,
driven to engineer their own demise,
believing that technology, somehow,
will lift them up, restore preeminence,
the glories of a bygone century,
and generate a hefty profit, too.
How is it possible they’re so naïve!—
To think a global web so easily breached
could keep them safe, protect their power grids,
ensure defense, the safety of their skies
…I guess it’s innocence, a childlike impulse
to believe the past won’t pass away,
but, no. It’s not our place to calm their fears—
Our job is to remain professional.
Like children lost, they fight among themselves
which frees us to proceed…
But when they fall,
as soon they will, I think I’ll miss them most
not for the twilight they inhabit now
but for their total faith that they were called—
destined, it once was said—to lead the world.
Ned Balbo is the author of Upcycling Paumanok (Measure Press, 2016); The Trials of Edgar Poe and Other Poems (Story Line Press, 2010) winner of the Poets’ Prize and the Donald Justice Prize; and 3 Nights of the Perseids (University of Evansville Press, 2019), selected by Erica Dawson for the Richard Wilbur Award. A co-winner of the Willis Barnstone Translation Prize, he is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts translation fellowship. Balbo was recently a visiting faculty member in Iowa State University’s MFA program in creative writing and environment. He lives in Baltimore with his partner, poet-essayist Jane Satterfield. More at nedbalbo.com.
SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.
Mary Katherine Creel‘s poems have appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Paper Rabbit, Tar River Poetry, Avocet, 1932 Quarterly, otata, and Nature Writing. Creel lives in the foothills of North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains.