Sunday, November 8, 2009

A Homeless Break-up; It's Your Fault

"Get the fuck outta my face!"
He half yelled, half growled
The decayed insides of the
chinatown bus stop
expanded and constricted
with his breathing,
eyes staring, ears poised,

She looked at him,
her aged navy blue backwards cap,
facing the audience,
"I can't believe you can say that to me...
this isn't you."

So now I wonder,
when this is all over
who gets the house,
how do they split the cars,
will the custody battle over their children
be bitter or one of compromise,
What will their families think,
How will they move on?


Who will accept their worn clothes,
jacket piled on jacket,
to curl up against in the cold night
over the sounds and smells of subway and sewer pipes,
steaming air and half eaten food,
"split the shopping cart in two,"
I can hear King Solomon's decree,

And after the bombs have settled
and the contracts signed
who has paid the ultimate price
for their fast cars, expensive food,
little suburban homes and fancy dress?

the look painted forever
on their
hands and
is my answer.

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