They walk along the streets
looking for jobs on the floor
that someone might have forgotten.
Their wallets are filled with dead hope
and reminders of their struggles
as stale as its cheap leather,
while the children in the pictures fitted in between the emptiness
seem to frown
From the wrinkles maybe
or something else perhaps.
They stand in the cold, shivering
in the hardware store parking lot
And they patrol
as sentries of patience
while the American dream blankets them from frosted morning
but nothing more.
And they cry
Oh, they cry
But they are nothing but a circus to sight
A circus, perhaps
But one which shows others
to feed the young and feed the dream.
Allowing themselves to be exploited
they only return humble smiles
that stretch from sorrowful eye to sorrowful eye.
And on they go
with the pores of their skin crying loudly,
to leak their hearts down their faces.
Later, after sunset
They return to their homes
wallets still worn but
the table will be decorated with crumpled dollar bills.
Nothing more, nothing less.
cracked backs and bruised hands
are medals of making the best
of what is just another day to the world.