Cash Crop Concrete Hollow: A Poem

7 years ago there were no houses

there across the bay

just dust, rock, prickly bushes,

the sigh of open spaces

now there are concrete clusters

empty palaces

for the worthy

everyplace i go they sprinkle water on the dirt

to sprout these hutches

a morning rash across a spread

of marble skin.

harvest the cash crop of pus

and keep your head above the water.

there's sound across the evening town

like a hammer

there's a whisper in the tiny streets

like running water

the cry of a child paying with pyrites

in the conviction of his find

in the horrors to unfold.

'mother." you will cry


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