Dirty windows glancing with <br />impudence upon the street. Inside I <br />suspect there are dirty people living <br />their mangled lives. Checking each <br />other for fleas and lice; scratching their <br />groins with casual indifference. The men <br />sit around in their underwear collecting <br />vulgar metaphors to throw upon their <br />kids. The women hide in their <br />basements eating chocolate cakes <br />by the ton. The children are angry <br />young voices that filter their angst <br />upon the school systems. <br /> <br />This is the real world. <br /> <br />Fickle signs that indicate the passage <br />of the world. 'Buy me'! The neon <br />lights will flicker in endless patterns of <br />happy delight. Computer screens blinking <br />on and off reminding dirty people of the filth <br />that is readily available. People sitting, <br />staring like glass eyed morons in front of <br />their television sets. Creaking bones that <br />are allied with cobweb minds that utter <br />mis-spelled definitions of the news of the <br />earth. <br /> <br />This is the real loss. <br /> <br />Growing dissension that lies like guilt <br />buried in a box by the front door. Open <br />the tomb and enter in. The grasping <br />hands reach up and pull you to your death. <br />I believe that golden showers only arrive <br />after the dirty windows have been cleaned. <br /> <br />But they never are clean. Each morning a new <br />stench of defeat is grimed upon the freshly <br />painted glass. We are certain only of nothing, <br />and everything we believe has been modified <br />by the screens that continue to blink on and off. <br /> <br />Craziness is the only excuse. Therefore the people <br />must shut their doors and draw their drapes <br />to avoid the reality of their sins. I suspect <br />that after dark they will murder one another <br />in their sleep.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dirty-windows-3/