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