After dark, the people from
under the bridge come out,
searching under streetlights,
up and down the concrete,
for a better outcome. They gather in clots,
yakking, muttering, hoarse whispering,
bleeding off the stress of another day spent
penniless, half-asleep, mindlessly tonight awake.
Contemplate their own species getting off late,
hustling to a stop, hailing a cab, hurrying
key-in-fist to the parking lot. Only due to the
purity of their apathy do the people not hunt
these pelts and skins in fine clothing,
rolling along the street, eyes full of loathsome fear.
Till one of their number, crazier than some,
wails to a banker, or a flunky, monkey or mouthpiece thereof:
“Let’s you and me in the back of my Escalade tonight get laid!”
And the heads of the homed at the concrete sink,
a gust of disgust in their cheeks.
“Plus, you won’t do what I just said,
guess I’m better off fucking dead!”
The people in the audience, where once a future sat,
smirk to themselves at those who from the lyric slink.
Hey, the people think: these be the creeps missing a link.
While for a song on both sides thought
dies with the echo, in the alley, of a song.
They lie where they lay, not laid. These links make a chain… chain… chain… – mh clay