Free to a Good Home

There is a body; the body is here. The body belongs here. The words won't come clear! The words change to eyes before my eyes, and I don't have the words to explain the bodies lying on the corners with brown bags in their hands and worn out shoes on their feet.

But maybe we don't really want the words. Maybe we don't want to know what's in the bags, who's in shoes, who they used to be before they were gobbled up by the never-places that exist between the commuters and the crazies.

Maybe we don't want to know them because we already know them. At least as well as we can. I mean...who really knows themselves that well, after all?