Eric Cockrell

i hear the wail of poverty,
feel the constant pressure
in my chest...
staring with eyes,
hardened and hungry,
looking for a break.
working past the point
of numbness,
sleepless under the weight...
i hear the cries of small children,
with every step i take.
i smell the anger,
and it smells like me,
the cold sweat of desperation.
the bullet phone,
or papers served,
one step from the edge.
i taste the tears
that men dont cry,
and the cold silence
of the women.
the car that wont crank,
the lights shut off,
the eviction notice on the door.
i hear the prayers of poverty,
prayed to a god that doesnt hear.
see the faces, and know the names,
and recognize the footsteps at the door!