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
Copyright © Angela Douglas | Year Posted 2021
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