The Way America Sees the Uncounted

He plucked 1 strand Of hair While sitting on a flat Cardboard box

He was brown and scarred with a Dome half scab, half tats

His neighbor spoke into A pack of Marlboros - a cellphone I guess - telling the unseen this shit has to stop

Next door, next tent Another neighbor Beamed a half gum smile At me and my wife

The bare of his back was etched And painted hard with a woman and man counting to 69

I drank my Starbucks And took my family shopping

_________________________ Michael Ritoch on his best days tries to be a poet/writer. He finds joy in his wife, two daughters, cats, one is really fat and the other is neurotic, reading philosophy written by old dead guys, and his friends. He writes about leadership, politics, pain, life, suffering, sometimes happiness, and whatever else comes to mind.