I was raised to write poetry,
To play Debussy,
Read to, sung to,
Fed and happy.

Looking at you I notice the shoes,
Off-brand dingy sneaks,
No bootstraps to hold onto,
No support.

You probably had one parent 
working three jobs 
to keep a roof over your head.
You probably went hungry.

I’ll give you my apple,
But the ten bucks in my pocket
I’m keeping in fear
you’d buy a forty.