I do not HAVE to rhyme and one of my favorite poems is about experiencing a poverty neighborhood firsthand....
poverty
The rodents and roaches are attracted to it
they always find cavernous passages
into the walls of the run down tenements
and dilapidated dwellings.
They follow the path of least resistance-
those pests.
No expensive poisons laid in their way
but the sweet pungent smell
of yeast and barley beckons them welcome.
And they are here to greet me
when I too
join the ever burgeoning ranks
of the working poor -
paying more for less until I give all for naught.
Then what?
enlarge the holes and join the scavenger pests?
The sound of it surrounds me -
the car in need of a muffler-become-luxurious
rumbles it's way down the street.
My own car
endeavoring to sound like an aviary
under attack by an army of cats.
Human voices -
not of playful children's
unrestrained laughter
but of emasculated adults
begging to be heard -
even by the powerless.
And every night
the human inhabitants fight -
as if to proclaim their existence
each to the other
and their rising voices
take on the characteristics
of a heart monitor
attached to a corpse.
(loud, flat, hopeless)
the gunfire -
never followed
by the anticipated
sirenes-only cadavers are
favored with the blue light special
in these-
the hospice neighborhoods
where all those afflicted
with terminal poverty
can fill the back wards of the city -
inconspicuous,
unobtrusive.
Replete with pain killers
(cocaine, alcohol, crack)
and screams of the hopeless
and blood
and fear