Right down here the altitude of dirt emerges
Misfortune hangs unclean laundry
Shoes worn beyond repair keep going
Clothes weep in debt to others
Their strands wearily trace
Long, lonely tears off frayed edges
While the stranger next to me
Pretends not to notice.
Way down here a line of hunger awaits
Relabeled food insecurity
Empty mouths and bellies
Follow their clones
One behind the other.
Carrying borrowed hopes
They exchange them for donations
Leftovers, extras and discarded sustenance.
Far and away apathy sports fake care
Swept over its head in outlandish fashion.
Arrogance grotesquely spews
Lie after lie to placate
So-called shit-hole countries
Including mistaking his own.
Funny: no one waits for saviors anymore
Except for the one right down here.
Copyright © 2018 Charles Edward York
No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*
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Author:
Charles Edward York (
Offline) - Published: March 11th, 2022 03:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
- User favorite of this poem: jarcher54.
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Comments1
You had me right from "the altitude of dirt." Bravo!
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