Haiti

I am deathly poor with a seven point zero,
The bloody t-shirt I wear features hand me down American heroes,
I am barely a number, barely a zero.

Rubble, rubble everywhere, and not a drop to drink,
Most of you wouldn't even drink from my pre-earthquake sink.
The soft whispers of death, are louder than you think.

God must not love his Caribbean Roman Catholics,
Collapsing the west's poorest country, his illogical mathematics.
Meanwhile banks take record profits; capitalist antics.

The stench of the stench of bodies, and death lives.
A one year celebration on the Hudson, a whopping 155 lived,
And here in the Caribbean, 50,000+ graves we dig.

We interrupt this coverage, for politically charged ads,
And return to a solitary daughter lost in rubble, and one camera loving dad.
American lives are not worth more than those digging up bodies with Haitian hands.

I'm just dermis and calcium, feather on air,
An exoskeleton of concrete dust, I'm barely there,
The octogenarian of pain, lost the ability to care.

An eight hundred millionaire, arguing for a pathetic half hour,
While I'm rescued from darkness, claustrophobia and silence after 50+ hours.
There is no god, there is sorrow.

We must warn you of the intensity of these death filled images,
Keep that reality blindfold on your fat faced kids.
Our developed lives will never be like this, so don't think-of-it.

The deepest black hole in space has to compete with a mass grave.
Resorting to civil war medicine and the limbs that it takes.
Is this sympathy or apathy that I have made?

I can't imagine any future, in this recently quaked head,
In a world where abandoning god is easier than abandoning debt.
I know that without any god, I'll still receive peace in death.