Poverty What smell is it that evades the senses
of upturned noses dulled by Dom Pérignon and roses poverty lingers soaked in sweat and
drenched in death on the streets below the poor march
along shattered sidewalks beaten down by worn boots–the spider web of concrete, a minefield of broken mother’s backs
The city covers its wounds with pools of molten darkness so
nothing will grow nothing will grow
black tar band-aids
on a city’s face a resemblance of the men that grace its
plane
cracked skin dipped in grease forever dirty when soap is a commodity course hands clench brown bags wrinkled and ripped in corners everything is reusable this price even
us even us babies cry behind closed doors matched by a mother’s
plea for help that never comes only the poor can hear
the sounds they live next door past paper thin
walls and they cry too
they cry too for their sons and for their daughters forever stuck in a life of destitution they know that every ladder in this town is pulled up like a fire escape chained
and padlocked by greedy vultures that live above and circle around never touching the ground they never touch the
ground they do not feed upon our fallen we are
not worth more than washed out bones and skin worn thin bruised knuckles bent over money spent so are empty stomachs can be
filled with gin and every hard earned penny of last month’s rent is used on a
score so we can forget that everything has a price in life one that we cannot
afford we cannot afford