Dustbowl Poem by Mark Heathcote

Those bars of attrition are very real
where life might only be monetary
where survival is counted in days
not in years, and your very next meal
has little nutrition, and feeds the many
and isn't shared equally; in this malaise
people, children die, and so few grow old.

Their sky is a boneyard of black-sunlight
it's God's own country, but it's like he has left
and the lands a dustbowl, Oh Lord, behold
this plight of hunger you have umpired.
Will this evil suffering be addressed?
It's no Garden of Eden, but we do our best
send us some rations, and we'll do the rest.