POVERTY (POEM)

Papa is still at home
He has just returned from the farm
His back hunges
Legs bruised, knees swollen and highly immobile

Has he not laboured in the market
For a third decade or two?
Was he not retired even before he got tired?
No smoke without fire

Mama left too early
And would return too late
With nothing in her purse
Just like yesterday

Our bellies are swollen out of hunger
As many youths are starved
No clattering of cutlery anymore
Only owl hooting and insect chirping abound

No food in the kitchen
No money in papa's pocket
Not even in mama's purse
Nothing to eat but how long?
As one bad turn deserves another
Oh! I hate this metonymy
Which doesn't help papa's agronomy
But pays him with ignominy
Without even a single pint of money
Bet! This is so pseudonym

I hate you, poverty!
Bet! I really do!