To An African Child Starving To Death
You unprepossessing brat!
You are no nightingale, no Grecian urn,
not even any athlete dying young -
ah, dying young perhaps, but you never were
an athlete, never strove,
never achieved,
never broke
any records, nor, I suppose,
any hearts that might mourn for you,
except perhaps for your mother,
who sits there dumbly with sagging breasts
waiting for you to die, staring vacantly
from no past that could ever be celebrated
towards no future in the burning sands.