=Peoples=

Peoples, I speak
of those who compel
and repel by their mere being;
like ashes on the sidewalk
cunningly avoided or cursed
by trampling feet and heavy breaths
of a late morning demon wind.

Disgust hides in the viscid mucus,
behind salivating smiles and grim
lips mistaken as sneers and distaste
by the hypersensitive Peoples,
whose whites embellished reflect
their contrasting scorn
so efficiently, and sacrilegiously.

As if that were insufficient,
the hands of the Peoples slap
across the face of streets, begging
thinner limbs and spare eyes,
but never new scrubbed hands,
for those are easily replaced
by grubby tins, or cardboard prints.

Their gods are tucked away
behind 'oh mys' and dollar bills.
Their sidewalk priest's whoever tithes,
and their subway deacon blesses their sleep.
The gods of the Peoples, though fickle,
never betray their trust or punish
their sins, when worshiped daily.

Peoples, they speak
of those who compel,
and repel by their own doing;
prisoners on the sidewalk
cowardly escaping or hiding
from shadows and scrutiny cast
by mirrored windows on the streets.