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North American Dreaming: Rows Of Plastic Chairs

William Burkholder’s poem urges us to sympathy for those at the bottom of the human pile.

Do please visit Bill’s Web site http://www.freewebs.com/nirvanasgate/index.htm

Sullen manic spectacles in rows of plastic chairs. Sorrows collide amongst found cigarette butts, and dirty wine bottles. The pain, the pity, the dirt of the streets tells its woeful tale on their bodies and in their eyes.

I walk past, with a hurried step, averting my biased, scared, and uncaring eye, that this passes quickly and that I can resume my life, blinded by denial of such things.

My closed eye's, my selfish walk has much to do with this, their plight. Walking undiminished of my own cares, sputtering same old cliche's. Generosity replaced with charity, true form lost to tax dollar renewed in my pocket, instead of giving freely of what we have, with no return on investment expected.
Sad and self-absorbed, it could be any one of us, sitting in those rows of plastic chairs.

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