ON THE PRECIPICE OF OUR TIME

by Jesús Papoleto Meléndez

The familiar rickety-rick sound
          of a homeless person

    moving

      his stolen supermarket

          shopping cart

   along

   the cuttings of sidewalks,

      sounds

almost like bells,

 as if

    Santa Claus

  were coming to town,

    but not

not

    but not

there is no more a chimney

  than

  a chicken

in every pot,

not a clean sock

is afforded

     to wear

or to hang,

not

the joyous face

    of a child

         as it waits

            in apprehensive surprise,

               to receive

the prize

©Jesús Papoleto Meléndez

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