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