no one to talk to, here,
in the middle of terse words and resentment,
for they should hear, and be heard,
once or twice or many voices calling from
alleys limbs concrete the hard parking lots
filled with Mercedes
and shiny wheels and 400 horses
power the wheel around again
from roads only walked
felt discovered in hard
journeys
in journals and scribbles ranted
from the tops of billboards
while people cars and cellular
things rush by fast
text this to the last person or dove
the last scion of human being
left in the pile of
white undying
petroleum
crud cups
from McDonald's as
the skinny fries sizzle