by Walker Zupp
As I flip through my Facebook feed, I find
Photos of people in fields – grinning, smoking
Sitting, sometimes standing: a beguiling
Look at the English upper class. Unkind
Though, they may be, they’re happy in their field.
The house is in the background too: humped up
Monstrosities of brick and slate concealed
In trembling grass. ‘Whose field?’ you might ask.
With the rest as far as I’m concerned, yet
Always theirs, even when their back is turned.
But they themselves were turned by design,
Snubbed by sense. Why are they smiling?
Is it a threat? Incensed by this I stare until my eyes
Burn, for you must be blind to share the laughs
And the dissatisfaction that satisfies.
Then again, it’s only a photograph.