Mark

I see pieces of the world
break off like shattered ice.
City clocks on the foreheads
of storefronts show
the different times
this downtown finally died.
The lights only turn on at night
metal scrapes metal
while the people sleep
protected by the noise
spit by the radio.
The trailer park is up in arms
about their dirt road
turned to mud and no one listens
because nobody is paid to.
Parties form around burning tires
and stolen bottles of liquor
and the shivering girls paint
sections of the concrete walls
with anything they find
can leave a mark.
Kids television once told me,
in all its makeshift plywood charm,
that changing the world
would be like focusing a telescope,
but can it really be that easy?
I don’t think so.