Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Dirty Words (Poem 352)

Imagine fifty 
people

then
multiply that
group 
by a million 
and add, oh, a few
hundred thousand,
or so.

How much space 
do they take 
up, all those people?
What is 
that kid
in the third row
wearing?
How does his hair feel
to his grandmother's
veined hand, which rests
lightly, there,
on the back 
of his neck?

In America every 
single
one 
of this sea of humans
lives the dream

in food insecure 
households.
Children in all 
of these households 
were food 
insecure.  

Tens and tens 
of millions of

    People

live/love/starve/laugh on
Ten-thousand dollars
a year 
for a family 
of 
four.

Authorities 
who know
call this extreme 
poverty,
but 

[hush...]
poverty is 
     a dirty word,
so don't think
about
it.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six