He sits in a sea of plastic,
On his head a cloth cap of elastic;
Squatting and sorting, oh boy,
Milk pouches, grocery bags, and toys.
Boy, don’t your life thus waste,
Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?
Beside him in a wide arc sprouts,
A sea of plasticized, grimy huts,
Waterproofed, engineered to last
This monsoon, and its windy blast.
Boy, don’t your life thus waste,
Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?
The vinyl signs are of polyethylene,
His plastic dreams are woven in benzene.
He thinks: is there no escaping this hell,
Of recycled mess and waste, please tell?
Boy, don’t your life thus waste,
Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?
He scrounges in gutters running foul-
Water, laden with plastics, chockfull;
Maybe, in his plastic-dulled soul,
He still yearns to be in play school.
Boy, don’t your life thus waste,
Nobody told you of poverty’s bitter aftertaste?
