Poverty is a soup.
It's the orange cubed carrot you hate.
And the oily broth you'll skim.
It's the hunger for the wait.
It's the steam that tries escaping
when the bowl's too cool to stray.
And the celery bits' scream gaping
when the mouth's too poor to pay.
It's the gathering of souls
when your heart's too scared to reach.
And the clamoring of bowls
when you're seated next to each.
It's the anxious glance of shame
when the table has odd spoons.
And the handles feeling much too light
to feed what silver ruins.
It's the time you spend while eating
when the others feel your sip.
And the chair you raise while leaving
when you're humbled to a quip.