The nameless roll by with dirty faces

Looking for money to fold

And have replaced their head stones with serial numbers

While their comrades in arms

Sleep the sleep

For the forgotten

in moving subway cars.

They exude the yellow smell

Of the truly sick.

God is never afforded to those who reach this floor.

I watch this show

As a future which is too near

And always calling.

Yet the pigeons and roaches seem fine

                                                   Never having to stake their claim,             

Their bands have an eternal understanding.

But the sea gulls continue to beg

For whatever it is

You’re eating at the time.

Coney Island white fish continue to float by

Un-noticed.

And all the beautiful people

Will continue to walk by with

Newly fashioned indifference.