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Where Credit Is Due

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I slip into
my most comfortable shoes,
the ends of their laces frayed
from my clumsy pigeon toed feet
but still so reliable.
Thank the hungry child who crafted them
on slave pay in China.

I turn the ignition on.
My battered Chevy breathes life again,
Its dents and scratches and noises-
ode to the accidental punishment I put it through.
Thank the high school dropout
whose fingers are stained an oily black.

I slouch behind a graffiti-covered desk
among 33 others.
Thank an uneducated man
whose political status
pushed class sizes up
and budgets down.

I glance at a faraway sun,
its radiance cradled by clouds-
thank no one.



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