I have not lived long enough to know all the ways of escaping poverty,  all the ways to leave that empty house, that desert of means, that so many are forced to live in after their birth. However, I do know that in such a house poetry is a window through which one may see a brighter landscape, one that beckons with its beauty and promise. A pen is all that is needed to explore it, and perhaps a stolen book, a match or two, and a candle to light one’s way.