Mine holds the smile of the man asking for a cigarette in front of the towering glass shell I call my workplace. On my shoes I swaddle in the painful frost bite of the third grader who walks miles alone to get to school. There is a holocaust happening to the terrified, the lonely, the forgotten. It has been on airs waiting for someone to notice the swords that dangle,
the choice superstars that run the crashing hours of the poor down and down and down into a flooded stairwell--like the passengers on the bottom of the Titanic, they will drown first.
