At what point do you consider poverty in America to be a serious condition?
When a few drunk stragglers rise with daybreak, to meet you with the onset of traffic at 8 a.m.? Or is it when you see the misguided walking around barefoot and misfitted in late October, with the accumulation of only the bare necessities- or lack thereof. Or perhaps when they noticeably squander opportunities and can’t keep appointments for free assistance?
I bet it’s probably not when you hear your coworker’s hunger pangs rumble louder than their persistent coughs. Or maybe you haven’t thought much of the kids without proper coats during the days the breeze is biting, because the sun does too good of a job creating an illusion of warmth. Maybe our attention is too diverted to realize the older man hand over a handful of change before walking out with the toilet paper under his arm.
I suppose the wool can be tightly blanketed over our eyes…
Poverty is a real issue and doesn’t always look like blankets piled up on the churches steps; sometimes it’s remorse in a strangers eyes, hopefulness in a child’s presence, and pity in a man’s gait.
But at what point do we look inwardly and explore our own guilt for running a rat race and paying no heed to the pitfalls in the system we’re serving. Perhaps we learn homeless from what’s on TV, and respond to it’s beseeching by what we’ve seen our parents do. To survive as the most fit we separate, classify, and categorize ourselves with ranks more shallow than the characters we publicly portray. There’s none more homeless than the impoverished in spirit, yet none more free than one that is forced to live simply.
Loose dollars,
no loose dollars,
the change in the cushion belongs to Georgia Power
the pennies in the jar are for next months shortcomings
I walked down the street this morning
beating the time ticking to the beat of my own mind
living within the lines
as a lady shouted out to me
“I have nothing, you have so much”
perhaps some are rich in spirit
and poor in luck
flustered, I had to compose my disgust
from wanting to say how very poor I really was
poor in that I pay to keep my materialism alive
see- she’s far more advanced and free than she cares to realize
dodging traffic in the crosswalk
the cars don’t stop for a pedestrian
the shelters only house the homeless
the beggers and the givers exchange glances both questioning
the church is only giving out food every Thursday
and I reach for my loose dollars
I have to pay my bus fare once I make it across this street
the cars won’t stop for me
time won’t stop for me
I’m angry she won’t ever know how truly rich she ought to be
because she’ll always be looking out for a hand out
wrapped in her blanket fighting the breeze
asking for loose dollars
I have no loose dollars
despite my pleas
the bus won’t wait for me
I guess we’ll both sit here and await the next opportunity
Perhaps it’s not wool and merely Cashmere, draped over our eyes and so befitting, we choose to hold onto the darkness…
So bluntly sincere.... 