the present, tense in poetry

a nation of rainy days and painful nights
playin’ lotto and dyin’ from the Lucky Strikes
hoping to be saved by angel wings or superhero tights
distracted by fairytales while they lose their rights
tragedy’s the only payout on the long long odds
getting only unfulfilled promises from their gods
in that fully empty sky
in the fading of the highs

yesterday was sweet but wreaked havoc on the pancreas
now there’s meds to take and no real way to pay for it
held up for the insulin with the rich taking all you got
if you say things should be fair they’ll call your ass “Pol Pot”
as they ever clog the sky
as the waters rise
as the bastards wave goodbye
while their servants die
from thirty years of Lucky Strikes
because that’s what lucky’s like
from behind the hate and money fence
out here in the present, tense