Children cry
Hoping to be made ready,
Washed, groomed. For some
It’s an inside job
Away from the cold and huddled masses.

Lifted from the basin,
They are dried, robed
Placed in the center of the table
So as never to fall:
The keepers,
Those born to win.

Away the soiled water runs,
Down the drain, carrying the rest
To fates out of sight, out of mind.

And how easy it becomes
For those given to run,
To forget those with little
chance even to walk.

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