Poverty

Rock was working as a sportswriter in a city overrun by poverty. He didn't yet know why, but an assignment sent him to an outdoor kitchen, and he stood there at dusk on a wide and deep balcony overlooking hundreds of bedraggled, unkempt men dressed in grubby and tattered clothes.
As these men wandered and mulled about below them, Rock and his coworker Steve Rodgers took sips of bourbon from the glass liter bottle Rock carried.
They looked at the vast, looming city skyline, which served for them as the kitchen's backdrop, and Rock was surprised to see so few lights—of the twenty or so buildings he could see, lights were on in three or four windows on the lower floors of one building. Though it was a weekday, there was no traffic, nothing close to bustle. It was quiet. "It looks like Pyongyang," Rock said.
A weary, scraggly man headed for them across the balcony. He held an old metal cup to Rock.
"Here, let me pour you some of this," Rock said.