Threadbare voices
crowd the air.
Some notes ricochet
like an un-tuned violin
others like wheat rustling.
I count their syllables
out of habit
and they their coins
out of need.
A penny per ounce
has long since passed-
I'm lucky to get
a penny per page.
Suck down the last bits
of salt and pepper joy.
The horizon ails
sucking life
from this dilapidated town.
I see no precipice for elation
rolling into view.
Bending down
with backs of rod
and soggy plaster,
the workers bow
in prayer:
God lift me,
but the plaster dries.
Soon,
the only way free
is broken.
Salvation comes from a preachers lips
whose battered bible
is self-inscribed.
Let his words
hang themselves in the air.
Dangle your own thoughts,
drop them through the air,
break them open with mortar and pestle,
and mix them
in the meal of others.
Eat redemption.
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