a poem by Jonathan Butcher
drenched walk, out of windows
I see faces peek that stare blankly
at their fractured reflections in
bottles caked in mud, that follow the
patter of rats through newly buffed
never will be, no easy answers handed
out like free samples of whatever rot they
offer for the price of a smile.
a sewer of fool's gold, in which the
children here panhandle, hoping to
find some kind of value, in this place
that has nothing to sell.