About Modern City People

The skeletal man walks
Wing-tip shoed to work.
His briefcase swings in his
Limp arm, barely there
Beneath a suit too big for him.
His face gaunt, his skin taut,
Like leather over his bones. 

He lengthens his stride
To a burnt building
On the corner. 

Not alone,
Whole lines of people pace
To the tic tocs
Of their clocks to work
As well. Backs hunched,
Their backbones
stick out from beneath
Their suits, hair frazzled,
mouths dry and cracked. 

They jitter and buzz
Across the Desert sands,
Eyes half-mast over
Hidden problems. 

All jump their frail frames
From smoking busses,
Roaring trains,
Hissing cars.
They smile their lip-sticked
And bearded smiles
At each other,
Engage in small talk
Under the intense
Sun, oblivious
To their states.


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