Ma(’)s Espacio

What if my dollar had once traveled
to ultimately kill a child?
From paper to data and code
to buy the bomb which the child was owed?

I would clutch closer my purse
if I thought my money would make it worse,
yet once paid it flies free
and what was mine could have even killed three.

How am I supposed to feel
if this “taxation” would make it real?
Do I shrug at this cycle and sigh?
Do I not pay that dollar any more mind?

I would like to tell my dollar “No.”
I would like to say “There, you won’t go.”
But to money what can I really say
other than

	You’re slimy and sly.
	It’s not because I don’t have more of you that I distrust you.
	It’s not by virtue of passing you on that I want to be remembered.
	I want to control you so deeply, yet you’re covered in oil.
	I want to show you how good you can be when people don’t obsess over you,
	or when society no longer fools itself into thinking your oil is lifeblood.