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.

Janet Buck