Poem: Children of the Traffic Light

Tired feet in broken sandals,

aching from slapping the paved roads.

Worn out jeans, torn and restitched, torn and restitched,

held around the waist by a broken belt.

The faded shirt, once as bright as the clear skies,

hanging off the frail body.

Leathered young skin,

beating sun upon the bare neck,

where the sweat of hard work glistens.

Calloused hands,

waving bright little toys in the air,

selling that which they should be playing with,

foreign to the touch of delight.

Their tired eyes watch the other little children,

cooled by air, playful smiles, unworried happiness,


physically by glass windows,

but eternally by birth.

Hardened eyes set upon soft ones,

as the light turns green,

they watch as childhood rides away,

as for the working children,

everlasting red.


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