I wrote these poems a couple years ago, back when my mind tackled everything from the plight of the homeless in the face of so many empty buildings, the wastefulness of the American consumer and the lack of justice for drug dealers who get life sentences while child rapists walk the streets. In light of the recent economic black hole that is developing on wall street, these poems are even more meaningful today.
Not a black thing. Not a white thing. Ain’t got a thing.
Remember, when someone pulls
themselves up by the bootstraps
their back never completely straightens.
It’s our American duty to capitalize on that.
Not Referring to Eggs
And they’re scrambling
To the Jones’ they are
The epitome of affluence
To the banks another line
Of credit at its end
And he’s scrambling
Rummaging through the
Pockets of his mother’s purse
For train fare to the school
That teaches him a trade
That will be obsolete in five years
And she’s scrambling
Belly heavy, subway begging
For the child whose hand she holds
And an invalid grandmother
She was denied food stamps-
she missed an appointment
morning sickness
And he’s scrambling
He calls himself a dehypnotist.
Picks up barely used Ikea house wares,
resells them for walking money.
SSI checks will never cover the full cost
of New York City rent.
Clinging to
the precipice, he wishes he could pull
himself up to the next plateau.
Instead, he’ll hand truck barely used
electronics to the flea market.
There’s always an endless supply
down on the curb.
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