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Ashes of Complacency See them - huddled in little boxes under bridges or ditches on the side of the road, fires fueled by the fumes of their need as the smoke curls beyond their camps, branding its smelly truth into our lives. Warming themselves as the glare compels them into timeless moments where they almost believe as they share their lies (and sometimes truths) of days once written in flowing script now blotted and marked illegible. But, time reminds them in relentless fury, stomping its feet upon a ground frozen, unyielding or caring of yesterday's remembered. Do you suppose they wonder when they gather late at night around their campfires talking, of those that stopped or didn't - or never drove their side of town? What makes a right or wrong way to live or speak or die... it all boils down to choices, yours or mine. While the ladies quilting circle locks their fingers tight as they close their eyes (and pray) the glare from their lamps peeks between blinds in the house where they meet and next month another (but they always have one) only the refreshments change. They gather their clothes in the bags they will drop in the big white box every December, collecting receipts to show they gave. And, they watch the smoke in their rear view mirrors as they drive past the place where they sit by the fires fingers wrapped tight on the brown paper bags, guzzling down their comfort and shame and the only good thing they've felt all day. All year. Ever. |
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