Greater and greater loom
the food bank and the Sally
as anchors to small and downtrodden living.

Larger and larger sound the horns of the cars
around the cardboard signs and their holders
on the traffic islands everywhere.

Wider and wider the eyes of the thinning.
Deeper and darker their sockets,
darker and sharper their cheeks and jaws,

and dumber and dumber their tongues.
Louder and louder indeed the shouting of others
but dumber and dumber the tongues of those

who know what has to follow shouting.
Not frightened by the coming violence,
just silent before it, not wanting to tell of it

for fear of it not coming. For fear of scaring
the shouters back into silence. For fear of them
not learning how they will have to back up the shouting

when the time comes.  Until then,
thicker the shadows by the Sally back door — 
and longer the food bank lines, silent and waiting.