The Bare Pantry

How strange a place the world
can be, how variant social compacts
between generations when values
fluctuate so wildly they distinguish
themselves beyond recognition
one to the other. I recall living in
poverty, shamed wearing broken
shoes, admiring new and pretty
ones worn by others, shambling
along at school, hoping no one might
notice. Even my lunches were so
different; no one else had sardine
and onion sandwiches, little wonder
I was given the luxury of wide berth
while I craved companionship. No
toys like other children, no ice skates
no bicycle, no hope to be just like
the others. Now, I understand that
poverty is recognized when Internet
costs are too dear, when a family
drives only one vehicle, when flat
screen televisions strain the family
budget and membership in sports
clubs equate with high fees and
disappointed youth finding their
own solutions in the comfort of gangs
drugs and opting out of school. I
chose not to opt out, instead I was
ordered to, so I could work and help
support the family's bare-bones
requirements of shelter and food.