A Scavenger’s Song

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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