A Fall into the Streets . . . A Poem by Shirl A. Steward
Mar 6, 2006
A fall into the Streets
Forty stories high A pillar of smoky gray glass Towering far above, A set of blue gray eyes peer at rubbled streets of New York Live.
Are they real? these stone faced ones who come and go, seemingly untouched by the ragged denizens, worn by impoverish resolution, forced to beg, grateful for any kindness turned their way?
The custodians of the glass giants are numb, indifferent . . . Indeed, they have no call to serve as guardians, not responsible at all for what the drop outs eat or where they sleep. Why shouldn't there be annoyance, anger at the presence, the arrogance of those who willing gave up the right to play the corporate game, too soon beat, to them belongs the blame for acceptance of defeat. Could it be that the cloudy loft dweller fears his comrade's ill fate could soon be his own? Has fear made his into a hollowed shell afraid to feel? Perhaps only time will tell. Whether he will dare to peal away the mask he wears. which fools only him into believing his world is real separate, apart for all that lives and breathes totally unresponsible for the rest.
Such a narrow ledge he walks with others like himself thinking themselves immune from banishment, no danger of being ousted from the pillared nest, refusing to see how close they are to tumbling from the edge. Safety, at best, only an illusion a place for weary minds to rest.
Life's two sided coin could flip to reveal luxury's alternative, homeless anonymity, has come to end life's favorite solitary dream . . . "forever after"ness.
How different are they really from their bedless brothers to whom they throw dimes, like a butcher throwing scraps to stray pups. Dehumanized and broken their brothers little more than degenerating trash, they think, who rather down a flash of booze than nurse a bowl of soup,
Aimlessly wandering mindlessly from bar to cardboard box.
Alas, it's hard to tell who's number's up Dread disease and products obsolete bring new faces to the street, Fate's call is not to please. Rags have turned to barely soiled business wear, straggly, unkept hair now shorter, almost trim. Surprisingly humorous is the fall of the vultures from the air, Our culture's finest oxymoron. Risen from the streets, then From their lofty perch to the feet of those they once considered too lowly born to shed a care Their own embarrassment now too much to bare with no one near enough to hear,. . . to share.
By Shirl A. Steward, Written and Copyright 9/22/94.
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