The cloth covers the body
The shroud covers the dead
We must escape
What we see everyday.
Sharp smell tickles the nostrils
Suds of soap stick to my wet, clinging, tattered coverings
Me beating the dirt and grime out of rich attire
Wondering whose blood it is on the cuffs of my master's shirt
Battered thread-bare shrouds
Cloth brown, once white
groveling bloody wounds
leave their mark.
A spurned cur, a mongrel
Howls in the distance
The watchdog of the estate
Rids it of the grime
The grime that we are both made of
Poverty.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment