Poetry

The neck pain was singled 
out. Roll yourself down― 
from the hills. The 
figures were crying. 
 
You cannot dismiss 
the infamous past tense. 
The butchered birthday― 
of freedom of speech. 
 
The underpaid stone cutters 
of the quarry, and the 
golddiggers crowding the street. 
Whom will you give your hand? 
 
In glass, the progeny- 
grows, away from home, 
from inheritance. 
I stare in disbelief, unblinking.