The night vanishes like wounds,
but nothing heals.
The poor walk like bruises.
Somewhere a surprise diminishes
like an echo, races
like our pulse, and seeps
into our bloodstream
like a book of opinions,
as we race towards
those 'little boxes
made of ticky tacky',
and struggle to arrive.
I imagine you're referring to Pete Seeger. The phrase: 'ticky-tacky' led me to that conclusion. The substance of Pete's song was sobering and certainly a portend (statistically speaking) of what now has encroached on society like mold. "And they are put in boxes and they all come out the same" Indeed. Enjoyed this DH. Especially the memories it brought back.
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Ron