Bare

the cold has a way
of piercing souls of the poor,
in a way it doesn’t touch others.
it bites into bones, creates crevices deep within skin.
its sinister voice penetrates the cracks between their walls,
stifling the embers of warmth even before they are lit.

but life must go on for the poor.
and it does.
through the day, they tend to cabbage fields,
pick choicest teas and strawberries,
or work at homes made of teakwood floors
victorian chairs and antique doors.

and when the warmth of the sun
surrenders to the night,
they huddle over feeble fires
on which they brew watery soups
with lentils afloat
like shredded hope.
hope, as threadbare
as the clothes they wear.


and when night comes upon them,
and the cold gets fiercer,
more ominous than it seems in the day.
they reach for each other,
like they do every night, for
lust is the only emotion
that keeps them from succumbing.


written in February 2012