THE LAST SUPPER

A sickle moon above a street
of doom … cold, tired, drunk,
I sit in the Night Hawk restaurant
where the food tastes like industrial
waste, and yet empty stomachs all
around me, sipping coffee, regard
me with envy, as I frown and chow
down. While toothless men grin,
for no apparent reason, as they
slurp their soup with trembling
hands – maybe in an apologetic
expression because they have a
few bits left from their social
security checks to go out on the
town, as the world tumbles down,
and feast, with abandon, on thin
broth and sodium.
Another night in urban blight, like
a thousand others since the recession
began and the government declared:
“Get by as you can!”

DREAMS OF GLASS

shatter across the shimmering
cities as towers tremble and
fallen angels tumble, like the
ashes from a demon’s inferno.
Cut paper puppets scatter, helter
skelter, amidst the rubble,
like the pieces of an exploding
jigsaw puzzle.
The main streets are backstreets.
The towns, villages, hamlets
eerie: ghost haunts, silent,
shadowy. In my rundown
tenement, where empty pockets
don’t feed the family or pay the
rent, we wait for that miracle
which is heaven sent. (No use
waiting for the government.)
One bad day, we all say.
Every breath makes you pay.
Every face makes you pray,
as lives topple and souls
crumble and dreams fade –
while women wail and sirens
scream and children cry and
hopes fail and men die inside
a little more each day. Life is
hard and unrelenting for some.
Each day is an installment on
an unmarked grave, where names
and dates are erased by fate.
Tomorrow will bring another one.
They go on and on.

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