Receipt for a Forgotten Country

They said the cost of living went up

like it was a polite elevator

and not a trapdoor.

Like it was numbers.

Charts.

Percentages.

Not ribs counting themselves

from the inside.

Somewhere in this country

a child learns Mathematics

by dividing dinner

into smaller tomorrows.

Somewhere

a parent drinks water slowly

so their stomach will believe

it has been fed.

They announce inflation

like weather,

expected, seasonal, harmless.

But there is nothing gentle

about cupboards that echo.

Nothing seasonal

about hunger that stays.

Listen.

Poverty is not silent.

It is a refrigerator humming

with nothing inside.

A landlord’s voicemail

saved but unanswered.

A winter coat

that almost closes.

They say millions are struggling

as if millions were fog

and not faces.

Faces memorizing prices

instead of dreams.

Faces learning which bill

gets mercy

and which one gets teeth.

This country builds skylines

tall enough to touch clouds,

glass towers

shining like promises,

but not tall enough

to see us.

Because inequality

isn’t a gap.

It’s a distance so wide

our voices arrive

already mistaken

for wind.