This is not the gas-bombed people of Syria
Gasping for breath in a field hospital
It’s not migrant families drowning at sea
Babies’ bodies tossed on a beach
It ain’t a homeless woman getting harassed
By crazies under the underpass
Nor a bullied teen done in by the cruel
Bailing out from the roof of his school
Mine is not the lot of beat-down folk
Scraping by each day without hope
My easy path doesn’t wind
To starvation and genocide

I tell myself these things
When I feel sad at night
Bathed and fed and tucked in tight
I count them on my fingers, my blessings
The bountiful bounty of a lucky, lucky life