That Poverty

how can i forget your having to play with hunger at the boulevard
somewhere in the seventies
when the president declared martial law and we were then
scampering for our own safety,
there was this apple vendor whom you entertained
with your stories about the struggle of the lion to be freed
from the cage of ropes saved by the city rat which got lost in the
mountain of trees
and when his mouth gaped to the bright moon
at the boulevard
you took an apple and then we walked away and we took turns
biting the redness of the crunchy fruit,
and then we parted ways and then what i know was that
a man like your face
was shot to death by the oppressors of the city
and your body was buried on the shallow
sand of the river bank and it was your mother who finally came
and reburied you with decency.

i heard, and i could not forget, she did not shed a tear.
i think, i did.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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