Bitter Squalor
Poverty and rage is all he sees
in a furtive,doleful glance,
and the brightly-colored lights
cannot console the wretched soul
of his malnourished,shivering body:
bundled up in rags and visible to all
the hurriendly and careless passerbys,
who seem blind in their own pretense...
He rejects the mournful sounds
interfering with his needed sleep;
and yet,he lifts his drooping head
to peak around the wratful trees
to assure himself that
the wooden and metal shack
is well-secured and safe;
his numberless doubts delve deep...
In the middle of a furious February,
winter has failed to invite the generous sun
to warm up his frosty home so run-down;
an impoverished home in which he repulsed luck
that could have turned his life around;
his regret is an unremissible remedy:
consumed by a wishful valor
that ended in bitter squalor....
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2006
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