Mark Wallace


The people whose lives will not be discussed
or the way they get discussed, feeling
how the market bears down, to be rewarded
in the language of systems, speeches etc

where'd you come from, chump, steerage
class and commuter rail, the common stand
of what's got nothin' to do with me
and who's gonna eat it, while talk

goes this way and money that
while some smug grin just floats through the door, waiting to buy,
one last small stoop to seize the transaction,
big squeeze going up on a billboard.





If you think about who's out there, you'll see them,
which doesn't mean you'll know who you see,
the sun goes away from the land, faces
dizzy like a category, the line-up, the dark ring

outside vision, hard comfort of walking
alone in some place you can't understand, whether
to grab the silence at the bottom of the mind
or talk to strangers, wondering who

will still be there when the flood breaks through
amid the scramble for food, gas, facts,
are you really so ready to see how the future
splays itself across the highway, people gone wild in cars.