*****
This heart hurts
These limbs are weak
This spirit is
Too sad to speak
It likely seems
They’ll take away
The phone she works on
Every day
Or so much money
There cannot
Anything
Be further bought
For that month’s
Remainder, oh
This is an all but
Mortal blow
Through daily slog
Domestic strife
Through poverty
Through painful life
She seeks but order
To create
Pain for all
Alleviate
But she will never
Gain back weight
If all that she can
Say she ate
Is plain potato,
Noodle, bean
With not a pat
Of butter e’en
Her nervous palate
To appease
Still less for hope
A bit of cheese
Perhaps it better
Is this way —
Phone’s getting heavy
Anyway
The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:
