I live on garbage of the rich
unfit even for their watchdogs,
packed in plastic bags and dumped
in piles outside their mansions.
The half-eaten hamburger,
perhaps bought just an hour ago,
is a feast to my five-year old son
who gaily romps atop the piles of rags
collected and ready for selling
to the women of Libertad Street
who make rugs and carpets
resold at a pittance to the usurers.
Thus, I die every moment the steets
are clean, and garbage-less for the day.
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