At Least These

Empty bowl
grumbling hunger–
why is there no food?

Scorched seeds
drifting directionless–
hoping for life in barren soil.

Cracked well,
leaking water–
mocking parched souls their unquenchable thirst.

Lonely footprints
shifting in sand–
lost without a willing guide.

Threadbare cloak,
dangling forlorn on a rusted hook–
barely sheltering those left in the cold.

Withering vines,
trembling leaves–
yearning for a smog-cloaked sun.

Rusted gate
guarding mocked cries–
echoing in walls of abandoned hope.

What have you done
to heal the pleas
of the least of these?