Hurricane Haiti
What do the poor hang onto?
When all the trees are gone.
When hearths are quaked to crumbs...
With nowhere to hide from the whirling gray eye of the storm.
In the afterbirth, show boaters will arrive.
One spoonful at a time. To feed a million shaken lives.
One blanket to warm the sharky shoals.
One cross to shelter the fractured mast of hope.
Soon after, show boaters will flee to silver ships.
Setting sail for gilded homes.
Wrapped tight around paper souls.
Far removed from Haiti's howling winds.
That lick the salt from burned black bones...
No invitation to board these ships of privilege.
Like there were so many years ago.
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