ghosts
in the façades,
stretched and folded
like darkled taffy.
people clip-clopping by,
in vain footware
that could feed the Congo,
unmindful
of the boutiques and shops.
with windowfronts
that mock them,
reflecting
the rack and rend
of stress-borne souls,
simulacra
of the money dance,
insane puppet show,
fueled by the crowds themselves-
the bustle and hassle
of their clock-spurred flesh,
and the hellish mimes
who taunt them
from umbral walls.
http://moondaypoetry.com/chris-crittenden.html
