I Am Black And I Live In Florida

I am poor and Black, living in Florida, Where the sun shines bright but justice hides. My rent climbs higher than my paycheck dares, And landlords call it legal—so it stands. I walk through heat that melts my hope, No breeze for me, no break in sight. Police lights flicker like a warning flame— Too often, they stop me, never explain. The schools my children go to bleed neglect, Their ceilings sag, their textbooks torn. We drink from pipes that are made of lead, And grocery stores are distant ghosts. A hurricane comes—I have no car. Shelters full, roads closed, options none. They say, “Be resilient,” from mansions high, While mold creeps in like silent blight. At polls, my ID is “not quite right,” So my voice is muffled under laws. Hospitals stare at me with shrugs, “Pre-existing,” they sigh, then bill me blind. Still, I rise each morning, wary, worn— To face the day before it's gone, And that, my friends, is a sad program.