Hobos are the unacknowledged legislators of the world,
Hippies of the drum circle its armies of the night,
the Unemployed turned anarchist the new-school bourgeoisie,
the throng of rude unimpressed Youth the new blue light.
More drop into this sewage from the ordinary every day
as jobs, homes, health care lapses
learning, as they fall, how to live with so much less,
less stuff, fewer lies, not as much irradiated food,
to fill the abyss of self-esteem with something else,
to look with different eyes at the world, to observe
how close the stars are, and how no corner's disconnected
from another, how strong one is for walking on two feet.
Nearby, more people wait to fall off, afraid
of what they'll become when their vestiges of order
crumble, afraid of the smile the free wear,
their shabby clothes. The clock is like a timebomb,
so they hold on to the moments:
the posing models, the decadent gadgets,
the knowing that their paradise must end.
When you've been branded by the hot coals held by Satan
you tend to trust him, you take solace in your pitiful share
of corruption, and overlook the sacrificed souls of children
as it's all a game, until the reaper comes
and reminds you this was your choice all along.
