Poverty

Poverty


In college, I witnessed
My stomach interpret
Striking poverty.

A bologna sandwich.

The fifth bologna sandwich
In a row of barren plates.
“Too broke to have cheese,”
I’d relay my story
Later on in some
Corporate coffee bar
Surrounded by gathering
Sympathy and smiles.

We would share memories—
Ramen Noodles and peanut butter—
In between our latte sips
We’d say we had it tough.
Living as bohemians,
But sore afraid of art,
We would break ourselves
On pre-fab altars
Dressed in the robes we
Borrowed from the
Prior generation of
Poor college kids.

As we would leave our
Hallowed inner sanctum
We’d be caught shuddering
By the threadbare face
Of our misunderstood illusion
Pouring coals upon our heads
From the cup in his hand,
Stained and wanting coin.
Spending ours on brewed beans
We would have nothing.
All we’d have was what we needed,
Barely getting by.

Turning our backs upon
Our own hypocrisies
We’d saunter to our
Ten year old cars
Break awkward tension.
“Hope this junker starts.”
We’d laugh, accordingly vacant.
One would turn--look again.
We’d drive,
Curse the cost of gas,
And head back home.