Who’s Counting?

He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn’t know where he’ll sleep tonight
or when he’ll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone’s counting,
if karma is real?

What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?

He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd’s pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.

On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren’t enough to fill the void
between the abandoned and the lost.

And I wonder,
if someone’s counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?