what good are poems
to a young soldier
lying dead in the sand
the victim of a random act
of ideological hatred
and callous ignorance

what good are poems
to a young black man
shot on the sidewalk
across the street
from his grandmother’s house
trapped in a crossfire
of systemic oppression
and deep-rooted hopelessness

what good are poems
to a young white man
with a black w sticker
on his new white bimmer
silently immune to his less
fortunate counterparts’ fate
and sullenly unaware
of the privilege that protects
him from sharing in it

what good is poetry
in a world where nothing
can seem to slow the violence
the senseless brutality
and the indifferent blindness that
keeps us from sharing in it