The wind, determined and spiteful;

Pierces my winter clothes;

My extremities are icy;

From my nose down to my toes.


The grass, bearded with frost;

Crunches under my feet;

Dad reverses out the car;

I slip into the relative heat.


I gaze out of the window;

As Dad navigates the roads;

There are a number of salvagers;

Pulling their great and heavy loads.


Hunched over in the cold;

They haul with all their might;

Their breath forms puffy clouds;

In the feeble morning light.


The newspaper vendors at the corner;

Huddle ‘round a blazing can;

Their wares lie in forgotten piles;

Keeping warm their only plan.


The beggar at the traffic light;

Stands miserable and alone;

A pile of plastic wrappings;

Is what he calls his home.


Education and job creation;

Can help improve their life;

As a community this is vital;

To prevent social discord and strife.

by Robbie Cheadle



9 thoughts on “I spy … a poem about poverty

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