Kenny Gwena Poet I do not know?

Watching With the Watchers

A chorus of the hungry
Father, we are here, singing choruses
To a crowd of witnesses 
A scattering of utterances among crows 
Muttering things 
About this and that
Unknown quantities of baloney  
Seasoned with desert salt
As the scene arranges itself with the usual players
Preachers, Pimps, power brokers, pen pushers
Worshipers and whisperers

It will not matter whether I lived 
Or died begging. What matters is that we are here
Unnoticed
Watching with the watchers
Herds of putty faced plutocrats filing past us 
Past decorous doors 
Into the depths of the pleasant places 

Inside
Lettered sous-chefs salt 
And season yet another crowd of butchered beasts
Where lingers another hearty feast 
For hunters, gatherers and whisperers

Armies 
Of half butchered waitresses with painted faces 
And battered souls attempting to hide 
The bandages and splinters that hold together 
Their fractured internal structures 
And ignoring the empty laughter. Like us
And they try hard not to stutter
There may be a tip at the end of the shift

And chatter hovers 
In the many places, above the clinking of glasses 
On the other side of other doors 
Cutlery gathers and clutters 
In the able hands of busboys and dishwashers 
And more grease spatters

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