Sweets and crisps and molten chocolate bars
In the hot sun the vendors hawk their wares
Inside the sweaty buses, the conductors shout for fares
And in the traffic, the people drive their cars

A man homeless, in a shirt purple and torn
Approaches a car, flawless and new
Turns his palm up to beg, for whatever small, whatever few
In his eyes hope that some pity on him will be shown

In the car two people, son and mother
She at the wheel, he in the front seat
In the cool of their air conditioning, away from the heat
Glance at their newfound bother

The boy, in his hands a Styrofoam plate full of food
Moves to roll down his window and share
But his mother firmly shakes her head and shoots him a strict glare
Before turning her head, eyes determined on the car’s hood

The man’s hand drops in a quick flash
As shame and sorrow fill up his eyes
The boy uncomfortably chokes down his fries
The oil turning in his mouth to ash

The lights turn green and the engines start revving
The moment is over, and we don’t know for sure
Between the rich and the poor
Who it is that really needs the saving

-Chiseche

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