In the Ganges in the filth they wash away their sins,
in my bathroom i flush the toilet and wash away mine,
i can hear a train shake the ground , not a mile away, freight hurtling towards places, graffiti encrusted carts , art made by the poor denizens who haunt the urban train yards,
downtown the poor huddle together and steal from one another, they die quietly and without remembrance, when they dredge our rivers and lakes who knows what apathy will lie hidden beneath, modern bog people enmeshed in plastic walmart sacks and with duct taped ankles holding rotted shoes to their feet.
cell phone towers loom in the distance, their silhouettes dotting the countryside and cityside, all sides,
its reassuring to know that people in the projects can use their cell phones to call people who can’t or won’t help them.
I on my other spectrum with the pond i never use, horses i don’t ride, endless storage space filled with things i must throw away, a living insect intent on calling itself human, nay worse than an insect because of my humanity,
to hear falsehood echo in the night and do nothing.