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The Lepers
June 5, 2011
Our hands always move rhythmically,
His in time, mine in toil.
The sweat slowly slides down my cheek,
Satisfaction of effort efficient.
But that was then.
Now, my hands rest at my side,
While his remain at his steady task,
Ticking, ticking, ticking.
I am the unemployed:
Plans are made for people like me,
Because this is supposed to be the land of opportunity.
The images flash across the TV,
Pretending to care for people like me,
People like me, treated like leprosy.
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