My Name is Poor
By Rachel C. Deal

Hello. My name is Poor America.
I woke up this morning in a government paid-for apartment.
I showered in hot water—for twenty minutes.
I ate Kellogg's Rice Krispies® with 2% milk and a donut.
I drove to Wal-Mart five blocks away in my old Buick.
I filled up with gasoline that costs $3.89/ gallon.
I bought $100 worth of food with government-provided food stamps.
I had a cough.
I drove to the doctor.
I showed my medical card and was seen for free.
I drove to Penny's.
I bought a pair of Nike tennis shoes on credit.
I drove home.
It was hot outside.
I turned up the air conditioner.
My kids came home from school.
We watched T.V. and ate microwaved pizza.
I took a nap while the kids did their homework.
I did not go to work.
I have no job.
I did not look for work.
I did not need to.
The government takes care of me.
My name is Poor America.
Am I poor?

Hello. My name is Poor Perú.
I woke up this morning, early, before the sun became angry.
I showered from a bucket of well water that I collected last night.
I did not eat breakfast.
I walked five miles into town to look for work.
I stood in a long line and waited many hours to be turned down.
I had a cough.
I walked home.
It was hot.
I cooked rice over a fire.
My kids came home from school.
We ate rice, our one meal of the day.
I swept the dirt floor while the kids did their homework.
I left the kids with Grandma so that I could look for work.
I walked two miles.
I swept the floor of a restaurant and received a dollar.
I bought three eggs and a tomato to add to the rice tomorrow.
I walked home.
My shoes have worn thin.
It was dark.
I went to bed, hungry.
My name is Poor Perú.
Am I poor?