people roll around in trash
in greasy wrappers
and tangerine peels
they mosh and jump
in an endless garbage mass
a shard of broken glass
in their ash-filled air-pump
but they never for a second
struggle to breathe

it's one big waste bin
cardboard boxes collapse
metal cuts through skin
plastic sticks to the wound
glass is cold and sharp
the people, seemingly doomed
exist and pass energy around
with a loud spirited sound

people roll around in dirt
and when they're done
they go, they come back home

with specks of wind
whirring in their ears
stirring the desires
of their blood-pumping vessels
silver string in their hair
turns out to be wire

sweaty, red foreheads
with earth smeared all over
clothes green from grass
and greener from clover

people roll around in trash
people roll around in dirt
and so do i, don't you see
the obvious stains on my shirt?