by Dave Hood
A delicious aroma wafts through the upscale home,
Where walls are adorned with abstract art,
Where spaces are filled with the finest furniture money can purchase.
Parked in the drive, a Lincoln Continental.
Inside the home, In the living room, in front of a big screen television,
a boy sits on the sofa, enjoys some leisure, listening to music
on his iPod, reading Harry Potter,
Occasionally gazing at Bugs Bunny on the screen,
inhaling a large bag of potato chips and guzzling a Fruitopia.
At dinnertime, his stay-at-home mother
calls the boy to the table.
Pouting, the boy sits down, feeling only slightly hungry.
(He prefers to play with his gadgets and gorge on junk food.)
Resting on the table, a plate of spaghetti
piled with meat sauce, and a large glass of chocolate milk.
The boy sprinkles parmesan cheese on to the spaghetti,
slurps up several mouthfuls,
then pushes the plate away, as if to say, “I am full.”
(He’s child who has never felt the pain of hunger
gnawing at his empty belly, never desired water to quench his thirst,
never gone without the essentials of life.)
For a few fleeting moments, the boy recalls
the television commercial—“Save the Children.”
The image of an emaciated child with a sad face,
weeping, suffering, hopeless,and homeless.
in the desert of Africa,
Who looks like a victim of the Auschwitz concentration camp.
The boy recalls the request by the commentator:
“Children are living in poverty,
where there’s famine, hunger, starvation.”
Please Save the Children!”
“Make a Donation Now!”
For a few moments, the boy feels a tinge of guilt,
Then he makes a request to his mother,
“Can I have ice cream and chocolate sauce for desert!”