Look at you now, Mr. Hotshot, Ms. CEO, all puffed up, boasting you’ve earned the spotlight completely on your own
Maybe you did have nothing more than a childhood in a drafty apartment, dry cereal most days, fearful streets, handouts for clothes, filthy clinics for the flu, only one lousy stinkin’ teacher who thought
you just might be worth a damn
Did you make your own genes? Choose the time and place of your birth? Earn those other gifts of luck and circumstance that dropped at your feet?
Nothing there to chisel into stone, no bragging rights to wave at the clouds or stir small kids of little hope to leap with joy