What the City Throws Away | Poetry

I am not waiting for summer

or winter,

or sudden showers, hot and cold.

Poverty and hunger

have stayed through them all.

The clock’s hands meet

where the skyscraper touches the dull sky.

Skulls grin at my unease.

With lidless eyes, I dream

of tomorrow’s empty trash cans.

Waiting for rotten potatoes

and one last monsoon,

a thought swings through me

like a frantic pendulum.

My struggle for survival

wears a groove in the soft wall

that barely keeps me dry.

Through shattered glass,

I see a life for you and me.

I still say I am sane.

The sewer swells beneath the window.

You choose

whether to stay and look.

Some days, the search rewards me:

a page of poetry,

a mouthful of food.

I unfold the wet paper

and read what the rain has spared.

There is human dignity

in having something left to read

after the bread is gone.

Nearby, a baby sucks its thumb,

angry with a world

that has offered nothing else.

Its cries soften into gurgles.

Birds chatter outside the five-star hotel,

pecking crumbs from the steps.

The gap between rich and poor

is narrow enough to cross on foot.

I am still outside.

My skeleton hangs

among the boutique’s bright clothes.

You speak of social inequality

while choosing what to wear.

You pay for pleasure,

then grind my dead bones

for a better yield.

The clock’s hands meet again.

I wait

for another New Year.