My face is the front gate
of a rotting town

people sweeping
through streets
like a Plague
that kills with
disproportionates

my eyes the ticket-men
who check scraps of
yellowed paper for
numbers, ripping
of corners for their
pocket

my ears hum
with the sound of
Thalidomide bees,
collecting nectar
from dying flowers

I can smell scattered
chemicals and poverty,
children without shoes
and old ladies who
knit with rheumatic
fingers

I keep my mouth shut
to stop the spread of this
war

I let my head fall forward
sometimes, or shake

but

I will not open my lips
for anyone