Maxine Kumin's poem seems to be talking about the same subject that another much-shorter poem talks about. Here is that other poem:
The Least of These
On a lonely littered hillside Sweating in the Summer heat, Digging through the bits of garbage Laying rotting at his feet. Perhaps a few old bread crumbs Or a sip for a mouth gone dry, Just enough to keep him going Until he too lies down to die. And we sit at nightly banquets Feasting till we cannot eat, Throwing what we have left over In a can out on the street, Never saying a word of thank you To Him who keeps us fed each day, Taking all we have for granted But never taking time to pray. When you push back from the table Letting out a satisfied sigh, Do you see the world that’s dying? Can you hear the children cry?
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Maxine Kumin's poem seems to be talking about the same subject that another much-shorter poem talks about. Here is that other poem:
The Least of These
On a lonely littered hillside
Sweating in the Summer heat,
Digging through the bits of garbage
Laying rotting at his feet.
Perhaps a few old bread crumbs
Or a sip for a mouth gone dry,
Just enough to keep him going
Until he too lies down to die.
And we sit at nightly banquets
Feasting till we cannot eat,
Throwing what we have left over
In a can out on the street,
Never saying a word of thank you
To Him who keeps us fed each day,
Taking all we have for granted
But never taking time to pray.
When you push back from the table
Letting out a satisfied sigh,
Do you see the world that’s dying?
Can you hear the children cry?
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