Dirty Words (Poem 352)

Imagine fifty 

people

then

multiply that

group 

by a million 

and add, oh, a few

hundred thousand,

or so.

How much space 

do they take 

up, all those people?

What is 

that kid

in the third row

wearing?

How does his hair feel

to his grandmother's

veined hand, which rests

lightly, there,

on the back 

of his neck?

In America every 

single

one 

of this sea of humans

lives the dream

in food insecure 

households.

Children in all 

of these households 

were food 

insecure.  

Tens and tens 

of millions of

    People

live/love/starve/laugh on

Ten-thousand dollars

a year 

for a family 

of 

four.

Authorities 

who know

call this extreme 

poverty,

but 

[hush...]

poverty is 

     a dirty word,

so don't think

about

it.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six