Regardless of caring, not caring, the man carrying a burden on his
back, is what
I turn away from, to hide my
face or my shame or recognize the fact that ours
is a country, where self destroys, forgetting not itself, but others
who share burden of killing, mitigating that one bit.
Killing poverty.
“Must the hunger become anger and the anger fury, before anything will be done?” John Steinbeck
Another night of dreams upon corrugated pillows—survived,
mother and child in their daily trek to Loaves and Fishes,
line stretching ‘round a city block. Escalades flaunting
Jesus Fish, Little Nemo playing on flip-down plasmas,
unload youngsters in tartan skirts & poplin blouses. “Ma’am
could you spare a little change?” echoes from the shadows
to those who are deaf to their cries. The cries of infants with
bellies swollen from hunger, mothers too famished to produce
nature’s nourishment, fathers desperate, ashamed. Hunger
to anger. Anger to Fury. Fury to blood spilled on the streets.
Public outcries as pie charts in papers show crime on the rise.
It’s November. Politicians’ promises tallied. Soon bells ring,
coins collect in red buckets, ‘tis the season for giving. Until
Spring cleaning sweeps poverty under the rug as CPA’s tally
charity on Schedule A’s. Just another day in paradise.
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