The little lost kid plays with cinder blocks
as countless couples and singles walk by
with expensive groceries, as the moon mocks
the poor and the cold with its winking eye:
It is more than absurd that no one cares
or asks why he walks alone outside, why
he lingers so lifeless at corners, dares
(it seems) cars to hit him, to let him die:
If I have to choose, I identify
with this child; but luckily I do not
have to choose, as good luck has chosen me
as some choice produce for their pressure pot:
Let them slow cook my brains? Or do it fast?
Do I leave this blank world? Or help it last?