Waste for Gain
by Sabrina Dawkins
Protruding belly, smelling of cigarette smoke,
hair that belongs to someone else,
never seen wearing the same outfit twice.
I hear heavy banging on my door.
A strange face greets me.
I feel mild terror.
Familiar stranger
since you only speak to me
shortly before you want something.
Do you think I can’t see
how you spend your time and money?
Cable TV tells you you’re poor.
Your politicians need voters for their own slavery.
You’re used to receiving aid from strangers.
Why should I behave any differently?
After all, you’re poor, and you told me.
There’s a response you hoped for,
where I sigh with sympathy
and hand over my possessions,
my labor, my work to a stranger
always wearing new, crisp clothes,
long attached hair, greasy fast-food bags;
or a male who has never offered to help me
rake leaves or mow lawn,
but sits for hours on porch,
music blaring, watching air, smoking, drinking,
socializing, cursing, talking sports.
You’re poor, but not in possessions.
You’re poor in spirit, full of addictions.
You’ve given away your essence
to your representatives,
who promise you a life of leisure
with a steady flow of sympathy
from strangers who will never look into
how you actually spend time and money.
By the way, I’m poor too,
not that you care.
And I know why the lottery winner went broke.