They come out of sun stone buildings
their black cake on the ground before us.

Our children have rags for friends
& mossy shoes
to travel to the broken eyed factory.

By my own admission
I squint at their shiny as they pass.

I too want to kill for old men to die surrounded by lap dogs
& richly woven blankets.

Yet: when the horizon takes them
takes them & puts them in a crack of the Earth
crushes them to red sand...

my very last leg is still;
I place only a paper pebble in the widow basket.