As we descend into humanity
from which dreams
never escape
but, where
religion is born (so they say)
and wonder in a voice
that has become
our anthem;
If tomorrow fails
to come,
what does it all mean, poet?
What will become of the gut-wrenching words
we tear from our souls?

Do we go door to door
begging for answers
and come away with nothing,
but a fistful of orders
for vacuums we don't sell?

Determined to salvage
some good from it all.
Will we toss our poems
into burn barrels
on frigid street corners
where frozen fingers line up
like icicles from eaves, poet?

Will unshaven faces
stare at us and whisper
"Thank you"
as we watch metaphors smolder
and dance toward a starless sky
and all we have left are unfilled
vacuum cleaner orders?


SAS