fancily dressed we stride
on main street down the barely lit
side streets to get to

The view, on the edge of town,
west of here and now,
where sunsets are gathered
into red and sorrows.

Or we live across the tracks,
where fancy is just washed and patched up,
still,
we stride with the same
destination
in mind and soul.

Futures are still written
only  with pen and papers, any
rich man or pauper shares.

May we someday, be equal.