My stomach aches
When I think of all those babies,
Ribs pressed out against dry skin,
Shrunken brains and swollen stomachs
Straining to escape a poverty
That makes minimum wage
Look like a fortune.
$7.25 an hour, when millions live on
Less than $7 a week,
Pennies that are left warming in parking lots,
Buying another day of life for gaping mouths.
Children are supposed to run, jump  
Play, laugh, learn,
Yet thousands sit blank-eyed
Staring at a future painted in
War-torn red, lonely navy,
And consuming, starving, empty black
Not having enough energy to
Lift thin, pale lips into a weak smile,
Let alone traipse miles of dusty sorrow to school each day.
My soul aches for tears shed in
Dark, hungry nights
Prayers uttered wordlessly
Into the crescent moon
As razor thin as their arms.