How can a nation that calls itself great—
the greatest in the world, they say—
allow this misery to plague the poor,
this grinding grim daily existence.
How much is simple poverty,
which is of course never simple,
and how much is caused by the
continuing COVID-19?
And the want of just $600 or even $1200
$1800 for eleven months is enough
to live on,
right?
The only place I’ve been of late
has been the place I lay my head:
a little house with black shutters
where I dwell on the life without
I have much good; my wealth
extends to adequate foodstuffs,
in cold I’ve heat, in heat I’ve chill.
My shoes are strong, protect my feet.
A new warm winter coat is nice,
a dependable car to go.
Of body, I have all my parts,
unlike some neighbors around here.
Between my shutters, I observe
people walking on my sidewalk
and some who drive by here in cars
dented, old, loud, and un-mufflered.
A trio of amputees in colorful pajamas
negotiates the railroad tracks
with care, so their chairs don’t tip,
and go on some daily errand.
I live near public housing in
a struggling neighborhood, where one
neighbor lives under a partly
blue-tarp roof; another has squirrels
In her attic, groundhogs in her
crawl space, plastic over her windows.
My house blends in because I raise
vegetables in the front yard.
Not Martha Stewart-style, and in
winter it can look pretty rough.
Teens on skateboards go by real fast
but walkers in all weathers, all hours.
Morning and night, heat and sun, snow
rain, cold, freezing cold. Every day
I see them trudging along, all
the unemployed, disabled, drugged,
Hungry, sick; the courthouse downtown
is three blocks away for those who
need to turn up for parole screens
or to see the health clinic folks.
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In two blocks are two bars for thirst;
two liquor stores supply the homes.
Family Dollar, CVS, Speedway, Shell,
but no grocery store to feed hunger.
Across the tracks the Branch ministry
gives out free food on Wednesdays.
The eager crowd that assembles
grows bigger on every food day.
No one seems to have a winter
coat, and the hoodie reigns supreme—
sometimes two hoodies, maybe three,
one worn over the others.
Hands jammed in pockets, they look straight
ahead and never have raincoats.
Another February day, a woman had
just flip-flops and socks on her feet.
There is no joy, there is no laughter,
there is no camaraderie.
Where do we go, now that we know?
Where do we go from here?
