The Poor

And I couldn’t make them understand. I drew it on napkins,

I carved it in the air. They looked through me and saw

nothing at all. I’ve been angry for a long time. I can’t describe

the taste of dust under the overpasses. I can’t explain

the sound of a schizophrenic’s laugh. The mothers picking at

puncture wounds. The lunatics nursing dogs. The bums out

masturbating in public under shredded bags and sheets.

Some days the temple quivers and some days it is firm.

I stand in puddles of grease and relish the scent.