Bands of neon soldiers hold their swords
high, keep the booze-encrusted rows
ignited inside
as if to endure the heat coming off from track-
lit kindling and warn customers how
social reform often begins away from home.
The air out here is much cooler and better
for requiting feelings for the blind man
resting his polka-dot cane up against
an empty barrel of trash—its lid
serves as a display:
“The best nation in the world is a donation.”
No sunglasses hide the constant
equinox from pupil to retina
and handouts aren’t his specialty—
that’s what the chocolate bars are for.
White, almond, crackle, dark.
This order sticks constant. Something
like an enthusiastic nod can
distinguish the big bills from the ones
who smell of illumination and cheap liquor;
that societal compost for the tip-toeing sort.
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