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THE PEOPLE |
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by Charles Carreon We are the changing-lanes people, the impatient-waiting-on the on-ramp people the can't-stand-to-be-stuck behind-a-truck people. We are the go-up-high-in-the-elevator people, the live-long-in-a-gymnasium-on-the-exercycle people, the cash-your-check in the line at the bank people.
We are the ant people, the build-their-hives above the ground people, The run-their-carriages on road-of-stone people, The count-their-dollars in the millions people, The deck-their-wives with splendid clothing people, The raise-their-young like spoiled princes people.
We are the television people, The wash-their-clothes-with Biz people, The shine-their-cars with fancy wax people, The comb-their-hair with gleaming mousse people.
We are the inch-deep-roots people, The insubstantial-as-the-grass people, The people without real names or memories. We are the reckless people, the foolish people, The coming-and-going people, The crying-like-desolated ghosts people. We are the people who try to sing themselves to sleep, But know no magic songs, The people who line up to die, And waken every morning asking why.
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