by Papa Osmubal

I can not actually see the exact color 
of the Los Angeles Lakers’ uniform: 
the anchor avers, “the purple-yellow guys surround an opponent! ”
But my TV flashes something like all sky blue.

Before the game the Stock Market Update
has trumpeted the economy (through the government’s efforts
and the new recovery budget scheme) rose to a nine-month high.
But whoever gives a damn!—such statistics is not a potent potion
nor a dosage to assuage the constant pain of my empty stomach.
And I can not even get hold of what they mean by that:
the garment factory I applied into two weeks ago
has just closed down the other day: sales took fatal nosedive!

Prime commodities and oil prices skyrocketed.
Value Added Tax expanded.  Tuition Fee hikes.
Currency devaluation spinning out of control.  Salaries cut down.
And looking out the windows, which are veiled with cobwebs and dust,
I see whores, street children, and skin-and-bone paupers 
whose eyes are quite sincere and precise at deciphering 
the truest meaning of grief and hunger.
And now the drizzle.  Now the rain.
Now the deluge.  Now the cold.  Now the fever.
Now kin to rats, they do not know where to run.

Poverty by Papa Osmubal

© Copyright 2005. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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