Here is a poem from my first book published many years ago.
Again there is a YouTube reading on the right
And a link to my website.
Then
poverty teaches no one
it's just dark and small
like a revolver.
always ready to be
the final judge.
I remember dirty walls,
macaroni, television, and
dumping the slop pail.
there was no beauty
you just survived
between paydays.
my father
drank every Friday
and Saturday night
he lived between
the borders of the day shift
and the night shift.
that was the only
structure I knew.
I know now
that he sold
what little of himself
he had so that I could eat.
what kind of change is that?
where one generation sacrifices
itself so that the next one
can walk on its bones
with a new pair of shoes.
