At the coffee shop
I stare at pictures of children,
of parents, of families scavenging
a living from mountains of trash.
A quirk of fate
I have no control or glory in.
My soul’s luck of soft landing
where it did, affords me leisure,
a cup of coffee, a cellphone,
a magazine, a pen and paper,
an obligation to speak out,
reach out, if there is way,
beyond mounds of garbage
mounds of excuses,
mounds of obfuscation that keep
the pecking order the same.
9-10-26
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