the masses move in the ways they always have
heads raised and eyes lowered
counting their day old fruits and flower petals to sell
because nature is now the currency of poverty
and we were bartering the hormonal rage of our mother earth
the vendor knows the intimate gnarls
and richocheting roots of the tree that became his dollar
and they are still moving
counting the cracks in the sidewalks
they tip toe over the tossed carcasses of leftover life
lying prostrate on the asphalt to be picked up
by their own cancer lined fingernails
the looming demons dripping from air conditioners
and shooting from car exhaust
the dead bodies covering paths, too large to avoid
and too neglected to be more than the roadkill of the traffic
and yet they are still moving
counting their blessings
like the world's prayer was in one language
branded onto the hunching joints of their kinked backs
lost in direction,
they trample eachother's feet
but braid their hands into strong ropes
to hold the world on the string that keeps it afloat
they are the masses
hidden blots behind the fingers twirling the globe
forgotten pot holes in the mouthless letter screams of the daily paper
small choruses conducting the melodies of the wind
they are shivering in the tossed rags of buildings, islands and plots
and they move and they dance and they march and they survive
like the immortal wick of a
flickering candle in the darkness
