The Cycle

When I saw the still photograph

of the faces of little black children

with some smiling

and some not so much

as they sat on the floor

or on a single mattress

graced by a single crumpled up sheet

or standing in front

of a rusted mobile home

or having a playground

of trash bags and cardboard

or finding shelter from the storm

inside a rusted Oldsmobile

or walking down their neighborly street

of crackheads and whores and the thug live

or the fact that they will continue

in the cycle of generations

living in poverty

I cried