NOMAD

By Thomas Ryan Lloyd


Stare,


Colder than the winter pavement


You sit


Cup of coins half empty,


Symptom of a contactless world.


Overcast,


Light stutters through stampeding legs


Wearing inequality as designer suit and tie,


Forgetting privilege is but the roll of a seven billion-sided die.


To some, life it must feel fixed,


Maybe brave should be redefined as born rich.


For fortune is too subjective a word,


When we no longer value anything.


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