By Brandon Chan

My phone, a ping: deliver chicken wings, 

out west. There is a part of town I fear:

apartments line the shady streets and stinks

of people smoking weed and drinking beer.


Increase in tension, must try calming down,

or maybe something else: an awful sin.

Cause, who am I to judge these folks in town? 

Know nothing of the inner lives within. 


The grind the residents work through, so they

can hope to earn their place so they may thrive:

abandoned citizens who’ve been betrayed. 

One waits for wings, in order to survive. 


For any here, I will hand them their food,

to change my poverty in attitude.