The best bed Ned ever had is his
casket today. We few who knew
him drop farewell soil on him as
the best bed he ever had descends
into the earth. The futon Ned slept
on by a space heater in his room
downtown is nothing compared to
the grand comfort he now enjoys.
Luxuriate forever, dear beloved Ned!
What is their fault,
If all they want
is the same things
as any other child?
Learn and play
live without fear
food on their tables
and a roof to feel safe
Innocent souls
with apprehension and
sadness in their eyes
still, kind and sweet
with the purest of hearts
They don’t know selfishness
and will share what they have
even if only a piece of bread
they will cut it in half
They are happy
playing with a block
of wood on the ground
while your ungrateful kid
is crying for not having the
latest model of cell phone
While you are taking
pictures of your expensive
meals or clothes
they went to sleep
with their stomachs empty
This world is unfair, selfish
full of empty people.
No child deserves
to be the forgotten.
Of course, they’re always with us
inevitable parts of that puzzle
we’re in, the games we’re playing
but, if we look around for a day
select where we walk, the shows
we watch, the people we listen to
it will almost seem like they’re no
longer with us, like lucky Houdinis
we’ve disappeared them; it’s all
just selecting and organizing things
thinking good thoughts about our-
selves, our exceptional selves, folks
who so easily solve problems they
spent a few centuries griping about
trying this and that, till they ended
up inevitable, without a solution
till now, of course, wave our wand
and they are gone as easily as that
– it’s so good to be that great again.
There’s a sad pattern
of loss and poverty
as inevitable as dry skin
along the hairline
Are they too close to see it,
too close to embrace
a change…
or do they see it, too tired
or discouraged to even
reach for it?
The Mumbai heat hits like a Tyson punch.
Sweat streaming down the densely-packed bodies of the
Middle-class commuters in the suburban local trains
Halting on long lines that shimmer in mid-May sun.
The A/C whines and whirs, unable to cool
The interiors of the sedan discomfiting the women
Talking Versace and Venice, loud tones, fiddling i-Phones
With dainty hands, wearing stones, waiting for lights to change.
Across the highway, under a lone Margo tree surviving in a huge
debris — dump,
sleeps the frail rag picker… marginal being.
A woman shrouded in unwashed clothes
unclaimed by the system.
Her present bed two fluttering newspapers,
a wrinkled face fanned by the hot wind,
drifting in happy realms, dead to sounds of a manic metro.
Never mind the din the chaos
Cars doing cat walks on rabid pavements breeding ground for flies and men
Never mind them
simply mind the beggar whose begging bowl is as empty as his stomach of the rickety boy standing next to him.
Maybe we can afford a hunger strike.
There is justice in a corner
revelry in another
but poverty comes up
and walks away with both.
So you justice seekers
find poverty, give it some respite.