you get to know the neighborhood
bums
recognize their palms,
the misfits of the street in their
divestment of the American dream
holding tight to the graffiti of hollow men
and their wild wild west empires,
bullets in their pockets and weapons for sale
in always-shallow hearts;

you might blame the corporation elite,
its stock
and shareholders
for having their own way,
or the politicians bought and sold on the
auction block,
slaves,
rendering to Caesar his image

but forget to look at your neighbor, your boss,
your landlord, your neighborhood merchant and wonder why
their bottom line doesn't include
the ones at the bottom of the social pyramid
or you,
the next in line.