Untitled.

He slouches in his leather couch big enough for three
Fingers loosely grip a cigar
His feet are up on a footstool
The air conditioner cools
The room enough to frost the crackling fire in the fireplace.
He drops the ashes in a bowl of used matches when outside a car crashes into pieces and he scratches his head and says 'That's six dead today.'
Not a wince on his face, not a tear in his eye
he doesn't bother to lean back and look out the window
to check if he's alive
and with the emotional range
of a tea-spoon says
'I wonder how things will change'.
You talk of change? YOU talk of change?
You sit in your furnished office debating, contemplating, your phone vibrating in your pocket
CONGRATULATIONS! You've made another miillion!
Great, now you're celebrating.
But what about the billion
on the roads
who knock on your car doors and you hand them four
Coins thinking you've given em more
than they deserved?
So you'd hand her a crumpled ten and her mother will be well again and her father wouldn't try to sell her again and her days would never be hell again?
Well, let me tell you that the next time you yell at her again when she asks for more, honey, she's not asking for your change, she's asking for you to change.