The Ghosts of The City – Poem by Bruce Whealton
The Ghosts of the City
At 7AM the homeless shelter spits people out like, some great phallus or like a bad cough. The sky drips and the sun squints and ghosts move through the morning fog a people set apart like shadows that you wouldn't notice till they speak to you and maybe you turn or maybe you move along faster – most of the time their invisible. Poem by Bruce Whealton - April 4, 2009
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