this fear of being what they are: <br />dead. <br /> <br />at least they are not out on the street, they <br />are careful to stay indoors, those <br />pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets, <br />their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter. <br /> <br />their ideal neighborhood <br />of parked cars <br />of little green lawns <br />of little homes <br />the little doors that open and close <br />as their relatives visit <br />throughout the holidays <br />the doors closing <br />behind the dying who die so slowly <br />behind the dead who are still alive <br />in your quiet average neighborhood <br />of winding streets <br />of agony <br />of confusion <br />of horror <br />of fear <br />of ignorance. <br /> <br />a dog standing behind a fence. <br /> <br />a man silent at the window.<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hello-how-are-you/
