A Poor Man's World

 I was walking along the side of a cafe, 

a long path leading to a park nearby,

locking my eyes, on the man sipping a decaf

He was speaking to his companions, 

couldn't hear what he said, 

a bit incoherent. 

albeit, I'm an adherent, I let my ears work. 

my inherent hearing abilities from all the 

relief lectures, had served me well. 

The man, set his cup down

And he started speaking, 

I couldn't hear him well, so I start peaking, 

peeking in through the glass, right into

the man's lips, could hear some squeaks now. 

Fragments of a conversation? no, not weathered, still there, listening, forming. 

"we need to- build facilities- poor"

says the man, downing his cup in a gulp. 

How virtuous! Who thinks of the poor nowadays anyway?

 

Torturous. Stinks. The Saviour, lays His pray in vain, 

"Good publicity- political- advan- voters-"

Oh, so the man is a politician?

Well, atleast they are going to do something

anything swings; stings, but doesn't cling. 

As long as the people are respected.

"degenerates- parasites- illiterate animals"

nothing swings, all stings, all clings.

Maybe I was wrong, surely the man is wrong.

Okay, atleast behind all the slurs, and hurls, 

thrown at the deprived, and their hive. 

Politics' activities would ultimately help,

and permit his goal. 

Subsequently, the welp of the masses would also die out, right? 

"facade- media show- selective-" 

As I surrender to the perennial corruption,

Give in to the society, accept it for what it is,

rendered my hopes dry, ephemeral deception

2 men donning plain white shirts, 

spotted with frail blight dirt, 

Waiting for their evening local bus, 

There's probably an office nearby, 

Their shirt drenched with sweat pockets,

Probably borne of all the standing, 

feet itching in the stale sock, it

seemed that they were the prole, 

they grumbled about the dole, 

then stay opposed to someone else,

paying the toll.

 Puzzle spectacular?

They were speaking about something too, 

what was it? 

fragments of a conversation, again? 

no, not weathered, listening, forming.

 

"lazy- freeloader- indolent- idle- inert"

Who are they talking about?

a colleague, alcoholic? 

chronic, in the thick, maybe they should

have Homer get some exposure

I move in closer, listening attentively now,

"remove these beggars! crippling dissonants!"

Oh. humanity, lessening. 

ground becomes sand, quickening and quickening,

stop. stop. pray I don't sink. 

In this glory pit, of deceit and survival. 

I feel lucid, trapped. 

What is this, this hysterical nightmare. 

Why isn't anyone laughing? 

This is a joke right? 

The hysterics got lost in itself? 

Preach fanatics, philosophize empathetic?

Pathetic. Graphic panic. Drastic manics. 

I pick up my sack, it's content, 

60 rupees, two 10s and two 20s.

A grubby comb, and a scrubby chrome.

I make my way to the park.

Issued with a bag of half cooked rice, 

It's going to be a meal tonight.

I reach the park, look around the benches, 

all the grinches are sleeping like they are at the trenches. 

When will we sleep, when do we wake? 

I sit on a bench engulfed in pigeon feces, 

feces, yes, dry. Not a problem. 

I open the bag of rice, and start munching on it.

I sometimes have it with water to swallow it a bit better, 

and when it gets stuck in the throat, I just nudge my neck's tether a bit better.

I make my bed by placing the sack at the top.

I place my head expertly well, 

I put a newspaper over my legs,

since my pants are torn,

and I'd want to pass the mosquito checks,

puddles born. 

I make up my schedule for tomorrow, 

another visit to the shrewd Mr. Arora. 

I work at his house, picking his trash, 

he is brash alright, but still pays a 30. 

I'll walk a thousand foots until I reach 

the garbage loot, I try to find plastics of any kind, and get my answers back in kind. 

I pray to my God, the corrupted system.

I pray to my God, oh lovely capitalism, 

I pray to my God, Mr. Arora and the bins.

For you all, are what makes me. 

I close my eyes, for tomorrow is what I need my energy for. 

A familiar shrill sound hits my ears, 

A sheesh of a whistle,

Unleases the hounds, to scare the wronged,

"Leave this place, you delinquent fouls!"

screeches a police officer, 

ignorant to the cruel, arrogant to the poor