I took a shower tonight
that was preceded by a bath
then I brushed my teeth and had a glass of water
A well with the spigot the size of the faucet in my kitchen sink,
was just installed in a small village in Uganda
A one thousand dollar gift from Bono and Chris Tucker,
It is used by a community of hundreds
And women may walk ten miles to collect the fresh water
I let my water run as I brushed my teeth
In Uganda, children want to come to school, even on the holidays
When clean water became available, attendance tripled
Because illnesses like Cholera, Malaria and Typhoid Fever declined
The children want to learn
They yearn to be healthy enough to walk miles to class
HIV positive women raise children hoping they can give their children everything,
except the disease
They make memory books of thoughts and pictures to pass on when the virus takes over
Their children are like hospice workers
Kids may sleep six to a bed, one on top of the other
They dance and sing outside the huts made from sheets of tin and old wood
These young happy faces make their own kites
from sticks, discarded paper and pieces of string
And they run down rough, dirt roads barefoot,
laughing as the kites soar
I should no longer want for anything
I too should simply be happy,
Smiling at clean water and flying garbageEven love was scarce, appearing only sometimes
times when light bulbs and soda cans were mangled into make shift pipes
when eyes were red and nights were long
This love came only when mom was happy and high
But withdrawal would creep in and steal the food,
his shoes,
his backpack,
his video games, toys, basketball cards
and anything else that could be sold
Addiction brought new faces to his home throughout the night
banging on the doors introduced 9mm hand guns,
gold-toothed thugs,
dirty money,
burnt fingertips,
weary arms full of tracks,
and women who had nothing left to sell -- but themselves
His innocence tainted, as he peered at the nightly routine,
flames stemming from fingertips held up to lips,
dreams evaporating into the chilled air of day two without heat,
black guns placed on his kitchen table,
stacks of filthy cash bundled and set out for admiration,
plastic-wrapped off-white rocks, gleaming like diamonds, teasing and tempting
curse words streaming steadily out of ignorant mouths and continuing up to meet his
young ears,
at the top of the stairs,
where he hid –
crouched.
Strangers with nightmarish faces,
with their tough, empty, beady yellow eyes,
woke him from his sleep,
kicked him out of his bed when they were tired.
Women used his bed when they were broke
They took over and made their money
beside his Michael Jordan poster and his recently robbed piggy bank.
The men offered him money sometimes,
to hurry him, half-sleeping, out of the room,
He accepted, thinking he won
At age eleven, he slept on a tattered and stained couch
in a dark and dank basement, alone
except for the sounds of the welcomed intruders above,
the roaches scurrying across the floor,
and the persistent growling of his empty stomach.
