_{Image from Pixabay, modified in fotoram.io}

Passing Faces

Some four decades ago, while passing in my uncle’s car,
I stared at poverty straight in the face.
It looked like a little girl,
wearing a ragged dress,
hardened by unwashed layers of dirt and grease.

Her briar hair nested lice
and the stench of hopelessness.
It refused to be moved by the wind
in a brave attempt at resistance.

Her eyes, wide and lost,
hosted thousands of passing faces and untold stories
of hungry nights heated by the yells of destitute abusers.
They could still cry, and did quite often,
but they were now showing the hardness of resolution,
of cynicism before suffering.

Her nose was rough and stout
It showed rows of snot and mud
with the dignity of the great kiskadee

Her mouth was big and shy.
It hid rotten teeth and an unruly tongue.
It also hid the unsavory taste of chained illusions.

Her feet were naked and intrepid.
They knew about pain but they had grown
the shelly skin to dress them for wild rendezvous.

She stared at me from her ramshackle fortress.
I was just passing,
trapped in the comfort of the air-conditioned Wagoneer.
My uncle did not stop for fruits or greens,
but I manage to drag that girl with me all these years.

Today I was looked at by a kid,
passing by in an outrageously expensive SUV.
Today I knew what that little girl felt some four decades ago.
Today I knew what went through her mind.
And I wonder if that little boy will think of me
for decades to come until he finds the words or the feelings.

_{Image from Wikimedia Commons, modified in fotoram.io}

Thanks for your visit

Visit at at: www.equipocardumen.com.ve