Irretrievably, my flood of words
Is fouled as Proudhon Bay
By this long seepage of our century.
Too late, my TV draped in sackcloth,
Unplugged, my publications in suspense,
Too late my ear tuned out.
My goods expropriated with the rest,
Liberated of both money and of sense,
My self is left, the sole
Remaining prize not yet raked in.
And only now,
Jay naked as my birthday morn,
One minute shy of twelve o'clock,
Am I at last unblinkingly political.