A bellybutton overflows with a child’s rumbling laughter,

The chef glance’s towards the chamber,

And as the breakfast simmers,

The elder knows sunday is the end of the corner,

Tomorrow the empty house will sizzle with the chatter of her talk shows.

Her neighbour will watch the same shows in her own cubical home,

And they will remain unaware of their commonality

Just like race horses with the blinders,

The passerby averts their eyes from the homeless’ body

An expression of the society that leaves the losers to their sorrows

They are one step away from the corporate sponsored prison housing services

Where they might spend the rest of their days producing Victoria Secret bras

Unveiled in middle to upper class bedrooms.

The blooming flowers are a distraction from the human hearts that ache, I tell you.