Peter Mishler

UBI SUNT

where do our beloved
shell company founders
investor misleaders
regulatory deceivers
receivers of kickbacks
stock dumpers tax felons
where do they go
where are they stored
each powdery chrysalis
sleeping it off
where do they live out
their full immunities
plea agreements
and cultural audits
from where
do they reemerge
afresh scrubbed clean
returning headfirst
to their revenue streams 
come close
and I’ll show you
the archival grove
its dense fragrant walls 
where deleted things grow
and within them
the replica
boardrooms designed
like the boardrooms
in which they were born
and nursed
where they curl themselves
in their sleeping bags
sedated and dreaming
and searching with
an expectant hand
for a meeting code
which opens restorative
fantasy webinars
woodsy desert
and beachfront themed
where they learn the laws
of forgiving themselves
with biblical underdog
wellness analogies
the triumph
of returning like Cain
but well-counseled
like Cain but clearly
better insured
where the parable
of the servant leader
is sung to be used
as Nebuchadnezzar
was used
and a whole array
of breakout rooms
on the benefits
of room temp
water and lemon
the rich rewards
of intermittent fasting
seven-minute
full-body workouts
compassionate tours
of sustainable pork plants
blue-blockers at bedtime
half-day swing clinics
the handing out
of digital badges
for each of these virginal
radical empaths
and real swag too
through the U.S. mail
those colorful polymer
charity bracelets
built with a tender give
for the gnawing
whenever reminded
they will not be followed
they cannot and will not
get better do better
as daylight now falls
in the archival grove
the great lacquered
boardroom table is moved
and they roll up
their bedding
and place chairs in rows
and each is regaled
in his messianic
quarter-zip lycra
in charcoal for leisure
and one of them flicks
the projector on
the screening begins
a highlight reel
of their remarkably similar
boy and adulthoods
first the younger
more vulnerable years
then the sadistic
camp counselor years
then the fucking
in the collaborative
workspace
and naming their children
for subdivisions
and rage while exercising
the selfsame children
and getting
their wrists slapped
and asking their home pods
to reschedule
their wrist slaps
and getting their sanctions
and asking their home pods
to reschedule
their sanctions
but there are no visible
signs of atonement
this footage elicits
collective ovations
and backslaps
and tipping
their Aeron chairs
no shame remorse
or redemption here
just hushed tones
of reverence
as the grove grows still
for the final scene
in the film’s final sequence
those twilit hours
before their indictments
unmooring their seacrafts
from shaded marinas
and steering onehandedly
steering while standing
their other hands
valiantly over their hearts
as they sweep
through the waves
and the waves’
microplastics
these prestige dramas
in performance fabric
momentarily repellant
of sun wind and rain
their data warehouses
hosed down
in the distance
all guiding their vessels
out into the depths
and back again
to their coasts
and capes
and coves and inlets
and unmarked roads
to their gated
enclosures
and modernist rebuilds
in townships repurposed
as global tech hubs
for each and every
prosperous genius
their landgrabs
and teardowns
where suburbs once stood
with half-green lawns
and poisoned mulch
and political signs
driven into the earth
which wavered
sun-blanched
in particulate air
from one administration
into another
and served to remind
the delivery drivers
just what in these households
they thought would save them
be kind they said
above all else be kind
for kindness is everything

PETER MISHLER is the author of the poetry collection Fludde (Sarabande Books).