A mouth moves in the cold

silence, the shout as flat as the red santa suit is deafening

signs rise in its echo, the waves of bodies lying on the ground between the stoplights

the traffic bothers them like removal

from normality, removal from comfort cannot be sacrificed for a life—

wishing they were like the road kill—easy to forget.

cup your hands to keep the others from peeking

the faces under scarf cover, gazing through the windows

at the cresting tides rolling over 14th street

between the alarms

sirens gawk at us—this is just overtime

wringing tears from unwet eyes is not easy.

it will never be, it feels like being dragged

and they complain when they cannot cross the street for beer

when the shop is closed

for the crush of people and the barricades

standing between them and routine are raised—

So snapchat your friends that you are frustrated

show us that you do not understand,

post onto Facebook

fuel your tank,

and repeat.

But it does not stop, the sensation that you are being pulled

your arms, your heart, eyelids held open on strings

14th street is open again and the breeze moves the beer cans in front of you

the marchers left nothing behind but the air buzzes like flesh crackling

the ends of the live-wires

the city wriggling

the country squirming, change rousing her fingertips

we are the useless ones, glued to their laptops, guzzling ideas

they spill out of our mouths, voices moving electronic hordes like waterfalls

dripping into their homes, moving into the street

she feels her pale fingers pulled forward

the emptiness of the avenues shattering

black coats rising from the pavement

hoodies no longer invisible— their voices are shouting,

the pavement becoming fists—this

is finally their street.

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