The Poor, We Die Young

By: Abe Sierra Jr.

 

Abuela made it to her 80s

But was already dead when she came out the womb

Like a stillborn that was still born

But kept around for convenience
Like a pair of torn shoes that are sometimes still worn
 

Permitted to take space

In a place that never cared for her face
And dictated the pace until it numbered her days

 

The poor… 
Prepped like cattle for slaughter
Herded into the slums

Forced to feed on crumbs or succumb
 

Made to partake in a race on unstable terrain
While weighed down by anchor and chain

We lose over and over again
The game is rigged, so how are we expected to win?

 

¡Pero Ya basta!
This is a call to the struggling masses
Those of us taking community college classes
In hopes of no longer being called classless 

 

Today we revolt! 

We're drafting new narratives
Ones with no more torn shoes
Ones with no more stillborn abuelas

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Our hope:

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That someday

The title of this poem
Will be a thing of the past.
 

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