Them

The rusted detritus of 163 different lives bleeds out

down the hills of Sullivan's Gulch, down to the train tracks,

ending in random slides of waste beside the rails. Down.

They’re barely alive. Skin-living under clouds and boxes, tarps

and weary sway-backed tents. Surrounded by legions of dismembered

bikes and long-orphaned wheels. Nothing left but their stuff.

Their wet everything: sleeping bags and shoes and orange needle caps,

empty cans, dead TV’s. Yesterday’s scrawled cardboard pleas

wilted floppy by the rain become today’s rug for muddy paths.

 

Sallowed and soured nylon caves with no welcome or a mat

Enslaved grocery carts spilling their treasures encircle

the refuse and the refused. Childless indentured strollers await.

Rain and more rain slides down blue-ish tarped camps guarded by brambles,

the dead and alive razor-wire that stands the lonely

tangled watch at night. Sipping blood from any careless slip.

 

The anarchy of their spiraled lives scares us;

they blame us, despise us, but take our crumbs, our shun, our change and wait.

Bodies, people, someone's girl or dad or uncle, sit numb and stand paused.

We say we try. We meet, we study, we throw coins and food and socks and scorn.

Cities and states and our nation gnash their teeth, say they try, and yet the years click on by

and all the    “we’s”      just     can’t     seem   to   pull   the right answer out of the hat.

 

We, the world so thankful to avoid the vague accusatory stares. We

there, in our cars, nearing the corner. What if the roulette wheel says,

“Hey you,” in the front row in the stop-light queue, kneel down, you’re next?

 

It’s time for you to hold the sign and fade from sight.