The God of Small Bread

We lived where no one gave a fuck about us,
Washington’s policies never reached the soles of our shoes.
The factory left, it took the jobs, the community, and the rhythm of our days.
Kmart sold cheap shit we could barely afford,
We borrowed dimes from neighbors to buy shampoo.
They handed us the script, called it a play, but never built the stage—
and the god of small bread offered nothing but crumbs.
I was born into a class that drew the lines before I could crawl,
So I learned not to want—because there wasn’t.
And the longer you go without, the more the hunger becomes you,
a kind of loss you don’t know how to name.
You, myself, and those of us who eat dust—
are bound together by ruin.