A short poem about injustice
|How lucky they are to make our purses.
How lucky they are to pick our tomatoes.
How unfair it is that we don't have a Dodge Ram pickup.
Those machines were built in Mexico,
Or in some other poor nation.
Two-billion people live in those nations.
How lucky they are that we let them sweat for us.
And how they sweat to make our clothes.
A woman pregnant with her tenth child
Makes our fashionables.
Her face is lined with creases of pain.
She is not made to wear fashion.
The entire weight of existence is on her shoulders.
How lucky she is to bear it for us.