Middle

Washed up like broken bottle pieces
on a beach where no one visits
because the sunlight there is like a stare
from someone you have always disappointed.
Rusted fences and tucked away people
paid almost nothing to be left alone
but not forgotten by the board rooms
pulling strings with all the rings
laced over fingertips.
They go to bars where all the girls
are paid to shake their hips,
and never tell the world about
what’s clawing up the edges of the well
where they fetch water meant to soften
up the vodka they are selling to the teens.
Parking spaces mean more to them
than any hunger felt by others
who they will not be in the presence of at dinner,
and all the tables stand like lions primed to roar.
There’s always more to morning news stories
than they tell us with those background pictures
taunting us about what this city could be
if we could only see it their way,
and give them everyday they ask for
like all that happens in between
is somehow nothing.