Under the Overpass

Was it his destiny to die in that sleeping bag curled up like an infant in the womb unnoticed, unseen undiscovered for days until others found the odor of death disagreeable more obscene than the circumstances that led him there under that overpass where those who happen to have been born to the right people were in the right place at the right time to be seen by those who crown modern kings and queens drive by in their Corvettes and Jaguars to private parties where they’ll drink from fountains of champagne and the best bourbon rubbing elbows with the other elite stroking each other’s egos until they ****** making deals worth millions in a world where the rest of us don’t exist who struggle not to end up on the streets to die alone as he did Perhaps he would have been among them had his parents had money to smooth his path to educate him in elite private schools take him to the theatre and the ballet to hear orchestras play stirring symphonies been shown beauty instead of brutality Had he been graced with a handsome face