Suction

Dear capitalism,
The children of my village
Are not waiting for liquid gold
To trickle down your cup that runneth over

And reach their tongues.

Neither do their parched lips await
The watery residue of your crammed plates.

They only want to know
What happened,
What was made to happen,
To their river you had put a straw to,
And what became of the turtle in it
That the straw reminds them of. 

First published in Dear Capitalism, June 2016.