Poverty’s House

“Stop screaming!” She shouts within her head
To her child that screams with open pain.
While she stands glaring at Lorraine,
Bending slowly towards that bed,
That bed, with streams of savagery inbred
Into its years of sullen, stygian, and unilluminated sleep.
“Sleep!” Raising Lorraine she curses somewhere in her mind, “sleep!”
And dark blood-red rain falls on their heads instead.
Tired Wayne walks in the room with empty hands,
With aged eyes, and broken dreams
Simply saying, “no one understands.”
They weep in spirit; they ignore the screams.
Lorraine, oh child, behold your fate;
Lorraine, lowly child, does not know poverty’s going rate.

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