For Those About To Die Poem by James McLain

they line the streets like forgotten bones,
clothes clinging thin, skin and bones,
as hollow as an unanswered prayer—
they die on corners, in alleys, out there
with eyes full of shadows no one dares see.

the city walks by with pockets stuffed deep,
suits and stares, faces blank as receipts,
and the doctors, their hands are slick with fees,
and hospitals open their jaws wide,
for those who can't pay, there's nowhere to hide.

the mercy we sing, the grace we sell—
it's bartered in back rooms, lives ring the bell,
and the world, it watches, it shrugs, it sighs,
'what's another soul in a thousand lives? '

this is a place for the lucky and bold,
where compassion is cold, money is gold,
and the streets are paved with stories untold.