He saw it by the dusty curb
dull and discarded
Slipping it into his pocket
he headed home
Turning the key in the door with the faded numbers
He announced his arrival
in this place beneath the neon light
that flashed “Weekly”
His sister sat criss-crossed
on a carpet that hosted too many shoes
as her own tennis shoes, holes in the soles
lay discarded in the corner by a stack of school books
Hunger abated, at least this night,
she recounted stories of others
who joined her in that small room
shuffling in line for their daily meal
A blaring old television
taunted them with visions of hope
as those who never knew cold
pledged allegiance to the cause
He pulled that red nose from his pocket
and affixed it to his face
His sister’s infectious laughter
combatting their struggle for a sweet moment
As the millions raised their…
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