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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