July 20, 2011 10:13 PM
Manhattan, 2011
Shadow Folks writhe on pavement,
scratching, sweating, dull-eyed
dusty, hobbled, scabbed,
beside their scribbled signs.
A Shadow Artist twinkles
iridescent in the gray.
She wonders about moving
to Detroit or Canada.
A Shadow Bookman glowers
and packs his yellowed wares.
He said in this city there used to
be a place for a guy like him.
And the crowded Crowds keep pouring in,
to tour or work and live as they do -
paying in, paying for more things for them,
not figuring much on the shadows.
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