Poem for No One

"No one ever comes
around here to talk
to us," said the man,
the black man, through
his window, and there
they were, a group of
dedicated newspaper
deliverers. I was not
there, with them. I was
at work, where I could
not even comprehend
the situation, and I
still cannot, but no,

I was selling books,
each with words on them,
and it was obvious--a
cast iron mask to sear
the greatest flesh, melt
all the gray brain matter,
yellow lights above making
everything seem desert
island, or outer space,
or Clint Eastwood's
mortuary examination.

It has been a month
and a half since Obama
was elected. The signs
in front of the houses
are no longer as bright.
Some of them even lack
the bottom blue half.

These are signs, marks,
we may now refer to
as geldings. I'm sorry
Biden, but you are
the castration of this
advertising. The dust
and dirt has covered
you, or maybe you've
simply decayed and been
swept away like excess.
What will happen when the
four quarters left are
ground into dirt, nothing
to sprout up but more
crime, chains, and shallow
pockets stuffed full
of damp, molding matches?