The world didn't change while I slept.
Cardboard chill is still my home,
soot covered broken bridge my ceiling,
how it trembles in fear of roaring
diesel progress, waking the night,
challenging the day, cracking
weary bricks.
At dawn the world is empty,
as my stomach,
as my dreams.
Industry sleeps but
anticipation spikes the air.
Soon, they will swarm;
the rich to their city eyries,
heads in the clouds,
heads of business, heads of state,
heads or tales,
decisions wait!
Blue collars,
in ones and twos,
marching to a swagger tune,
booted and muted
by a sleep disturbed,
but now I must dine,
on sell-by dates earlier than mine,
second hand,
second place,
second to the human race.
As my dignity is crushed
by a well heeled boot
in a faceless rush
memories of clean despair
define a life no longer there
beware. . .
here but for the grace. . .
this grimy hair could frame your face.
No comments:
Post a Comment