I watch behind afternoon pipe smoke
Gasoline rainbows on asphalt walkways

They are a congregation of black and white
Praying to a god They do not hate
Like the brown wings of a moth between fingers
Heads lowered; eyes to the ground
Too busy with making a living
To live a life

Shadow masks like spilled, old ink
Cheap polyester on hot flesh
Their blood burns with youthful regret
and midnight mistakes
Without spines of Their own
They are still the nation’s backbone

I am a stone that cuts through rivers
But smoke gathers dust around my eyes