Godiva Chocolate Rocks & Stones
It's a long title for a long sin. Poverty's shadows are polka-dot dandruff on velvet we brush. The rebel network of drawn shades where wet tongues bleed rust are hardly welcome on the easy side of granted tracks. And the hospital truck with a bed in its womb is a corpse in the trunk of our national car. Pain rules night's extended weight. We pass by signs "Will Work for Food" like veins collapsed. Drill for oil somewhere safe where the homeless don't roam and faucets don't leak. Away from the place where Godiva chocolates are piles of rocks-- just tents and shelters from the plain wet rain.