8 AM and they show up on time:
Good soldiers of industry.
They glance at his sign and his whole
world stuffed into a backpack and walk faster
like rats caught in his shadow
and their shirts are so sterile you
could use them to wrap wounds the
way they did during the war.
Last night he thought he saw a
crowd of stars like they see in
the suburbs, but it was only
headlights clashing with ice.
And here they are again:
white shirts black ties
white shirts black ties
And last night he dreamed
Saint Micheal delivered a sword
and a pizza, and today the pictures
in restaurant windows come alive.
Real food today, perhaps.
And here they are again,
racing against his eyes
till the muddled white light
pours into a puddle of night,
more like a day,
perverse and humming and
sinking in cold.
So far down . . .
And they are back again,
Capitalism's finest,
and the suits and ties
finally stop for him today.
Something strange about their landmark:
hands blue like suburban skies
and eyes that wandered far away.
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