The Faces looked blue behind second hand sunglasses,
walking up Mission St, wondering what
life was like when the
bus was a nickel. The Faces try to hold the night
in their eyes, but can't.
Its on their knees, their sleeves, on the dirty
street torn bags found
rolled up and sticking out of answerable pockets-
obliged to carry god knows what, and other tools
The Faces have names but are not spoken, brief
substitutes loaned to them by nature, pose creative
boundaries and spelt wrong,
with syllables swimming through
the air unlingering; dying before my coffee
The Faces breath, but no one seems to care.