We wear cities on our fingers
and orchestrate disasters;
as we peel back layers
of gut-wrenching speeches.
Of heart-felt desires.
Fasten our eyes upon words, short of phrases,
rest upon the table where our plates lay bare
like holes in the patchwork.
Starved of glamour; we are
spent and stolen; it is
by invisible few who carry the sidewalk--
it is stolen into concrete crevices
from grimy hands and foreign lands
(and hushed, guilty consciences).
Here, factories and floor plans
offer apathy and guidance.
But without reception or a working compass,
the world is lost on us.