Count Your Blessings For They Are Too Many.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

we were never
a family
her mother must
have been blinded
with so much money
and it is here where
love shrinks
like burnt plastic
cup

we are shut up
our voices are taken away
she owns the money
hence she is always right
moving towards her
own perdition

she must have forgotten
her once hungry stomach
her once empty pocket?

this morning we decide
to simply dance the chacha
i comb my hair
and it pleases me that
despite my age
it is till thick and
very much black

i open the window
to such a bright morning
for the first time this
rainy days
the sun is finally coming
up.