Morning coffee

The food in my mouth becomes tasteless
as I read headline after headline
morning coffee still warm in my hands
I wonder how other people will feel,
able to swallow down and chew their breakfast,
and drink their morning coffee,
sleeping soundly at night while their pity
poisons them into complacency
Will they write this off again?
another third world disaster,
brown blood-stained faces grasping for hands
and for salvation
the images are
fodder for celebrity humanitarianism
and ethnocentric Hollywood movies
and in anger I will ask
Do they know struggle?
my heart heavy with indignation
And yet another voice will whisper
vindictive and bitter
Do I even know struggle?
Every inch of my
2nd second generation skin
itching with guilt
Could I ever understand the irony of
people drowning when they barely even had
clean water to drink
And do I ever wonder if
my aunts had rosaries hanging in their cars
the day they died
Just like the one I have hanging in mine
and do I wonder how to tell people they are in my prayers
when I no longer pray
I read the headlines,
and I wonder,
as I try to swallow my food in the morning.

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