by: William A. Marshall

They want an audience
for you to
admire them
a meeting or some sort
where they can appear
central,
they need it to breathe
laughing
always monitoring
their carnival
they say,
“oh look, look,
that is so interesting, yes, yes,”
but they are not
down there
in there,
they are indifferent
their gallery is sanitary
and sterile,  
if you nod they praise you
they’ll promote you,
they wanting everything
to be bright
but if you deny them
they’ll take your money
sling you down,
down to the floor
under tables
where ants and spiders
fight for crumbs
alone,
you grab the window sill,
pull yourself up
off the floor
your index finger
is covered,
with lard and grime
that ultimately turns
to dust.