Retrograde Drain Poem by Noah Smits

Poor and exhausted.
Exhausted and poor.
Old,
worn-out,
always exhausted.
Bone-bags asleep beside empty Red Bulls.
Dead hobos found in stations,
conscious of the fact that no train is bound for Heaven.
Only benches.
Folding chairs that do not open.
Junk on lawns, tires that fit no vehicles.
One-room houses full of people
face the street—
oh, do not look our way, you child, passing by!
Don't let yourself look into our eyes,
don't comprehend our eyes!
Look up and say,
"Oh, funny world! "
Convince yourself we're a trifle,
pre-set occupants of the margins,
far from the bright young heart of the world,
forever outward expanding matter
adrift from the white pirouetting heart of the black world
whose black borders take in everything
under entropy-spread: black jam on toast,
inert.
Transparent bodies,
exhausted eyes.
While you can, child,
turn, turn away.