Po' Folk Blues

Our complaints,
our lust for $10 an hour,
our hunger,
never satisfied.

In the small space of the courtyard
just a small patch of grass:
there are broken bottles,
fingernails,
a near-death past.

In everything that passes:
our overflowing streets,
our daily transactions,
in the exhaust from buses,
our hunger is sharpened.

Our fathers leave no wills,
cool rain does not fall on us,
& our war is unseen,
though already declared.

In that small space
between pillars of brick and glass,
we gorge on the past,
gnaw our broken fingernails,
break more bottles
& sharpen our knives.

We who wear masks,
we who miss, who remember,
we who speak in whispers,
we who have nothing
are waiting.

Our watches bought in Union Square
are always broken, never wind,
the rent is always due, but can't be paid,
the showerheads drip rust-water
& the last train downtown
has left the station -

it is full to capacity with pale visitors.

They cannot see us.
Our knives are ready.

We are waiting.