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My building's full of little holes with heads in, |
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staring at the street. They sometimes topple forwards, |
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then stick at one another, passing freaks. |
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They rarely speak and though I don't feed them-- |
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still they keep their double (their quadruple) chins. |
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Their garbage bins are emptied each day. By night waiting with lights off, |
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their cats out, their wives in-- they're PEEPING! They're peeping |
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at the methylated man who spits in a can, spreads his hands |
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for silver, pans for gutter gold. He mutters old forgotten songs |
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his father taught him, rolls on the floor. He rolls in alcoves, |
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gets caught in waterfalls down rotting walls. |
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(He's bored.) My friends applaud, throw pennies and wait . . . |
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peeping from the gallery. |
