[the snow...]

the snow lights up the city-dark streets
trackless past midnight,
it doubts all could be asleep

solemn street lights imply pink
flakes are falling, and they stand guard,
british rigid, to light the path, but for whom?

fireworks tear through the night sky
bangcrackle fizz, and again,
perhaps not all are asleep

bootstraps

to those of you who believe the drive to pick one’s self up by one’s bootstraps with which one is born is all that is needed in this world, remember this: some were born without boots, and yet others were born without feet.

perhaps it is not the success of the rich that mark a country’s greatness. perhaps it is the compassion with which it treats its vulnerable.

perhaps we can work together to fashion feet for those who need them, then work with the bootless to get their feet covered, then teach those with boots how to tug on the straps.

and only then, when all has been made equal, can we criticize those who don’t pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.