If Only I Was Born In Cuba

I mourn my own hands. These hands

that made love, made art, wiped the snot of  my son and daughter. 

That have roofed a house,  and driven down highway 41.

I have psoriatic arthritis.   With theses arms and legs

I have no insurance.

 

 

I carry a white elephant of symptoms

but I am more concerned  for the collection of polar

bears my family greets.

I am  a father, and a better one than they

will ever be. As the provider, I’m a welder at a factory.

The news is bleak and old suffering

turns her rattling eye on me.

It is a time to pray, but I have no faith.

So I desperately pray to a god I think

long has stopped living. 

 

 

There are pills that are too expensive

for me to buy, that only slow down

the process if luck stops by.

If  psoriatic arthritis cripples

me, there will be no one to wipe  family’s tears.

No one to draw them near or pay the bills.

 

God may I be strong, may I stand, despite

the pain and fear, may I be hard, and carry

this. O this is the meaning of catch twenty-two.

I wish this prayer came from my imagination

instead of  the ache of my body and frustration.  

My hands are already starting to cramp

up and I feel the warm tingling

in my joints. I will hide the pain until I can no longer

 The pain is already almost unbearable. 

 

 

I live in U.S.A and here, there is no hope for

poor and sick,  for middle class and sick. 

O if only I was born in Cuba, or Canada or France

or the UK, or anywhere where medicine was given

based on need, and not dollars.   Not dollars  

-Don’t tell me this is the result of  inner poverty.

Author: annieepoetry

I am poet. I am woman. I write with my thumbs. Read my poems. Tell me what You think. You may find the love poem you always thought someone wrote for you. Or the one you meant to write But Becareful lovers tell zingers and often break hearts Milky Way Earth U.S.A Madison WI

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