Thermocol

The children of the poor,

Sit next to a garbage heap,

 And play with a large block of thermocol,

Standing like little soldiers,

With a hand on their waist,

Clad in threadbare cotton of yesterday,

 And the day before, Barefoot they fuss and fight over useless junk,

If they dream of dolls and toys,

I am certain those dreams never come to pass,

For they have that hungry look about them,

That says all good things are in short supply,

Yet, their shabbiness is not enough to hide,

 Their happy smiles or the seriousness,

With which they make a doll house of the garbage pile,

Absurd isn’t it,

 In this house of avarice,

A piece of discarded thermocol is all they need,

 To call their own.