There she sits in
a cement structure
that is
scarred by the torture
of poverty
and mother nature.

Her deep brown eyes
stare from a
broken glass window,
pondering
the growling
disposition
of her stomach.

Till, it becomes
just some noise
she forgets to hear,
and the feeling
becomes
some numb
buzzzzzzzz
in the back ground
of her exhausting
existence.

She is a still specter,
a powerful presence
in a place I have never seen,
memorialized for my
consumer eyes
by a photographer.

Hopeful humanist,
Howard G. Buffet
presents this
stark truth to me
in a photo reality.

So, all this fluff poetry
is an artistic assumption.
What gumption
I have to put words
to a world that
I have never been to,
seeing the starving children
while I am stuffing
my comfortable face.

She is symbolic of
human beauty and grace
in times of struggle
while I am a product
of comfort, excess, and human waste.

How do these
two extremes
exist
in the same
time?