Sunday Poem: The Poor Places

On Spain, Puerto Rico, Gaza, and Trump

The following poem was written in response to several news stories, which are included as links in the poem. I was listening to Wilco’s “Poor Places” as I was reading a story about the flooding in Spain, and the failure of the Spanish government to warn residents of the working class community of Paiporta.

As Tweedy sang the verse

It makes no difference to me
How they cried all over overseas
When it's hot in the poor places tonight
I'm not going outside

I started writing this poem, which references the floods, the war in Gaza, Trump’s Madison Square Garden Rally and other current issues.

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The Poor Places

The poor places of this world only make the news when there is tragedy, when river waters rise and people die.

In the poor places of this world no one is told that the flood is coming, that the Rambla del Poyo is swelling, that they should flee to higher ground.

In the poor places of this world, sometimes fleeing is worse than staying and other times running is the only choice.

Some are trapped in the poor places of this world. Some escape and leave the poor places behind. Some are stuck in limbo, their families broken by bureaucracy.

There is music and laughter in the poor places of this world, poetry and smiles.

Orchids and lilies poke up from soil in flower boxes on the windows of tenement buildings in the poor places of this world.

Children go to school in the poor places of this world, play hopscotch and tag and stickball, don capes like Batman, trade baseball cards.

Cops shoot kids in the poor places of this world. Black kids, brown kids, white kids. Shoot men in the back. Women in their beds. Blow up city blocks. This is a war say police as they occupy the poor places of this world.

The poor places are in every corner of this world, on every continent, in every country.

In the poor places of this world, families gather for Sunday dinner, coffee. They read the Haggadah for Passover Seder, break the Ramadan fast, celebrate birthdays and weddings.

They gather for funerals in the poor places of this world, too many funerals for too many deaths.

The poor places of this world are blamed for their own misery. They are blamed for all misery.

In the poor places of this world, the dead are called terrorists, criminals, bad hombres, women and children are collateral damage. They are tired of mourning.

The poor places of this world do not have spare change or even lint in their pockets.

The poor places of this world are not asking for a handout. They want a job and healthcare and safe housing. They want to watch the World Series and the World Cup and not hear the hum of an approaching drone.

The poor places of this world are called shitholes. Floating islands of garbage. War zones.

Some of the poor places of this world are war zones, with bombs raining down and soldiers kicking in doors. Some are detention camps, walled off with bricks and razor wire and intellectual justifications.

Famine and disease stalk the poor places. Drugs. Guns. Gangs.

Genocide.

Smoke rises from the poor places of the world as bombs level schools, hospitals, mosques, sewage plants, water stations.

In the poor places of this world, there is cholera and polio, hepatitis, dysentery, skin rashes, pneumonia.

Sometimes, we feel bad about the poor places in this world.

The poor places of this world would rather have clean water than our pity.