up on the hill
the little rectangular houses
with the big open eyes.
i see inside.
the lives of the lost
and the limited.
speeding on ribbons
black as the prophet’s heart.
profit prophet.
a toddler
with a brown nappy.
a mother
with pink hair rollers
and a cigarette
yellow filtered
a gray specter
smelling her hair.
these are the days
of others’ lives.
the ones not counted
the promised land
nothing but lies
and shit eating flies.
the old buick.
the man in a suit.
the five o’clock stubble
his health
in disrepute.
i see them.
i see the shame
in the eyes of the poor.
we know who to blame.
the rich.
flush them down
watch the circling drain.
all the gain
ill begotten
from a rigged game.