Jack London was called to the wild

where I will not go

for the wild is too wild for me

a woman who sits on cushions

soft, pillowy, pretty

looking out windows

to the mean streets

where blood runs

hot in warrior gangs

and money lust

throws up towers

that scrape the sky

so high they diminish the clouds

shadows fall upon the innocent

and from above the elite look down

basking in their stolen sun

beautiful views

sequestered there safe

while we below fear the day