The Familiar Sounds Of Crickets Heard

Go anywhere to listen to the words,
Of those enjoying their freedoms.
Some given to them.
Most not to earn or deserve.
With entitlements to sit around.
Throwing trash in the streets.
As they watch and take for granted,
Street cleaners...
Pick up their trash,
Behind where they leave it.

Go anywhere to see,
Urban dwellers living to complain.
About everything.
Including their lives lived in denial.
Done while pointing their fingers,
On a daily basis at others.
Living in the same neighborhoods.
Making efforts to change attitudes.
And mental perceptions.

'They ain't doing nothing.
But trying to be better than the rest of us.
And we do our best to stay down to Earth.'

'But...
What about the things they have done?
For you and others too.
With proof and evidence of it.'

'Like what?
Getting up early to knock,
On company and other business doors.
For more attention to shine on themselves.
Until we notice this feeds their selfishness.'

'Don't you think they are doing it,
To have opportunities created for you?'

'What they do is not enough.
The can do much more,
If they wanted to please us!
We need real change.
And not doors to watch anyone unpaid,
Knocking on them until one they hope...
Finally opens.'

'I agree.
You get no argument from me.
And...
What are you doing for yourselves,
In assisting to have the difference made...
To come even quicker,
Than the ones you sit...
With a passing your quick judgements on!'

No words are heard.
As the Sunset on the horizon,
Slowly begins once again.
Then...
The familiar sounds of crickets to hear.
As if uniting to start their nightly convention.
And those who complain,
Take it from the outside to return inside.
To do what they do best.
Bemoan and groan about their lives deluded.
Without interruption.
Or thoughts to hear of questions asked.
As if they had answers to hear them heard.