I have a name, a number,
and not much more.
People see me and move
a little quicker. Not
from the stench nor the excess
melanin, but the recent scheme
and theme of an unknown element
never discovered.
Millions of somebodies and me
waiting for a bus on a journey
to a dead end where construction
is always pending on a freeway
through nowhere. I have a job
and not a career in an ocean
of currency with only my nose
above water.
I load like cargo as a shipment
of human resources and find
a place to settle until
my stop. My stomach has
another after-shock
as I went without breakfast
and not by choice. Coffee
is my food for morning.
I pull the cord strung
up along the twentieth
century boat on wheels.
I move between mothers
with babies who cry as another
man walks out
of their lives. It takes more
than a village to stop
the bleeding brakes of change
to play catch up
on a dream turned nightmare.
You lock your doors,
roll up your windows,
and keep driving pass
my bus stop. I don't
hold a sign this time.
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