The rough-hewn, life-cracked faces
Of those for whom thought and reflection
Are a dispensable luxury
Roam the dusty patchwork of tumbleweed-laden,
Mud-caked paths of foreboding entry
Into the forgiving fluorescent city.
“It’ll be better this time, won” it?”
Asks the wide-eyed innocent, as if
The forgotten past endlessly replays anew.
“It’s bound to be,” gasps the worn, thought- parched
Head of household beaten by hope,time, and responsibility in a
Tableau-vivant American Gothic left
To bake unceremoniously in summer’s unforgiving sun.