With a wheelbarrow he is among the commuters,
while he crosses the road two cars hoot at him
and do almost loose one of the three computers,
while jobless as a white male his life looks dim.
At the pawnshop they buy everything that he has got
they take even the wheelbarrow and do happily smile
but pay only a fifth for what they will sell the lot
and with some with food he will walk back mile after mile.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem