Noon the street awakes
They appear
tall bone thin black garbed hunched
Bunched in twos threes
inhale the first of their day
eyes screwed
against the sun's spotlight

They tread the cement
in sorry sneakers or barefoot
slow stooped aimless
and clustered at the deli
grab hamburgers bottles chips
Ritual talk play erupts
with binding belch

No myth no legendary her prompts
from the wings
Synthetic drums
snare the pulse
Synthetic gods
jerk puppet strings
Watchers spy behind safe curtains
stare through screened doors
give the players no applause
Mutter
No hopers drugs army jobs
and switch on to the box

No curtain drops on Doomsday Street
On this stark stage
the show goes on

and on

and on.

Phyllis Bassett