62

Like the pricks of a broken-down fence
Or a wall that bends to a thief
Their teeth have begun to wobble
Not to mention the rot beneath.

Their voices are rife with Hosannas
Their hearts with damn-your-eyes
Their homes are treasures of artifacts:
Knick-knacks that men of good taste despise.

Their wallets are stuffed with cold
Cash that flies in sleep without rest
To some new dreamer who starts with a slap
And begins to holler for bottle or breast.

Confident the eye that sees its goal
Ignoring what passes either side
Or looks too quick (for an easy advantage)
To be perceived by their personal spies.


© Dan Goorevitch