See they are not pretty.
Rods of fathers who beat their sons.
Blue-black toes on a working man’s foot.
Like the blank windows
of public housing,
they are private,
Like widows’ canes
they support everything brittle.
They hoop and nod. They blunder,
All that, still can’t get loose.
Only a dark wind frees them,
them to wet sugar, pulp
for our feet. We are always walking,
but also can’t get anywhere.