There is No Comfort in Poverty

There is no comfort
in poverty.
Well known fact.
True lie.
Laughable, (hah!)
The way she drags her feet
to rat-infested hell hole called
home.
No hope in her
soul,
The bills in her
hand,
The mothballs in her
pocket.
Her dirty hair swings out behind her
as she turns her head around,
the eyes that once held joy,
look to see if she is being followed
by her small children.

Satisfied, (hypothetically speaking)
she turns her thoughts to more important matters,
like her back pains,
her foot sores,
the bags under her eyes.
(Such sad eyes)
There is no comfort
in poverty.
No comfort.

She blinks as she suddenly realizes
she has reached her corner,
the gloomy building ahead
startles her still, even though she has been there
a year now.
Dragging her children, screaming,
fighting up the stairs.
She blinks back
the headache behind
her eyes.
Turning the key to the door,
signing softly,
praying intently,
she walks into the
tight little apartment
to a life she didn't deserve.

She lays her head on
a thin pillow,
Glad the day is over,
Dreading the day to
come.
Sending a new prayer up
to heaven,
hoping,
She turns out the light.

by C. C., Holyoke, MA