Alone At The Table

He sits at a table
Head on one hand
Both arms holding him up
His room is scholarly
A chalkboard behind him
A pencil on the table
He’s dressed like a teacher
In a simple button down shirt

Before him are spread
A pile of bottle tops
Popped from assorted beers and sodas
The bend in each a fulfillment
Of its legitimate purpose

Now they wait
For what may be next
Counters for his students
That might come from villages
At great peril
Or cookers for addicts looking for
Clean places to shoot up
In the midst of HIV and Ebola concerns

He seems unsure
Whatever the purpose of the caps
His eyes sinking due to the horrors
Stealing the life from his homeland which
Once was full of promise
Now tainted with the not so subtle hint of honesty
That his people can only survive the mess
In which they are ensnared
By changing who they have been
And hoping the the rest of the world
Will not shun them
Before all is lost

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