Sadness Weeps

In my day hate clouds skies
that promise fair, and knives
hidden in words slash at the claims
of the meek to inherit the earth.
I sit in a comfortable house that
walls out cries of pain and hunger
along a street of lawns as tame as
well-bred faces. If rain falls
like tears it is because sadness
weeps in words praising our roses
and their fragrance while the wheat I grew
for my neighbors’ bread
sours in the bin.