Poetry won’t heal the world,
pretty words and broken lines,
stanzas that grace pure white pages.
The flowing words may soothe the ears
of those who care to listen,
but those who need the most on earth
won’t be served by our narcissistic art.
Those rotting in their homes,
smell sewers and taste the
blank food that never fills.
How can poems help them,
How can we ever help them,
what can white hands do
against the great wall of poverty?
In my heart, Maria lives,
the twelve year old I met for a week,
who held my hand at dinner
and whose dark eyes lit with joy at the sight of me.
Now, she’s surely pregnant,
a sixteen year old who won’t be on MTV,
she’s sentenced to a cycle I can’t stop.
University is a seventy dollars she’ll never have,
an opportunity thats already escaped.
My white hands did nothing for her,
my poetic verse can’t stop
the turn of the world,
the never ending problems.