The Faces

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
to survive.

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
gets cold.

The Faces breath, but no one seems to care.