The siren screams: It’s time, mark, turn off the radio,
& scamper down the maze where droves of blinded rats
sing the praise of beaten pack, holes to where they must
observe the beatitudes of Job: Jesus, have we survived?
How long this masquerade? On the table, I spread
cards of hope, evil & despair, shuffling, as if to pray:
What shall I take home today, to keep the family at bay:
This face that beams the guile of brats who shall one day
Cross my evil path; or that flaring in Egyptian gold
to deliver from soft hands of murder, paws of decay?
Kinsmen have to themselves kept; & likewise must I style
My days after the common hassle to save & beware:
Isn’t much, but you can’t do w/o the dollar anyway:
& drunk with wisdom, I hold my heart to descend the stairs.