Throbbing beneath the
tender skin of your soul,
a dream rubbed raw
with each step you take,

Pressing down on
blood-filled sacks, on
bad roads in sullen rain,
avoiding beggars and holes

No official will fix.
So you walk in the gutter
of history, beside the wealthy
heiress who wanted the vote,

Beside the schizo martyr
who received a letter
from the president, beside the
nurse's aide who wants

Government to pay for all
old souls who cannot walk.