The fist of God smashes
down on the ‘nine,
grinds out the butt-end of his anger
sends everyone scattering,
searching pockets, the beneath chair cushions,
dashboard ashtrays and the saucer
that sits a top the chest of drawers

Those who can
scrounge the price of admission
and are off to the flics
Those with enough 
for a cup, hold up
at the coffee shop,
back in back, out of the way,
re-reading the same page of newsprint
day after day
never seeming to tire
of yesterday’s news
Stretching a single cup of coffee
across afternoons

The lucky slip away,
vanishing for days on end
behind air conditioned doors,
sipping fabled beakers
of sweet tea and cheap beer,
letting them sweat circular scars,
haloes, into favorite end tables, 
Their toes chilling on the carpet
beneath the pale, blue rerun glow

Maybe later,
after the sun goes down,
they’ll go for a drive
who sits on her porch,
lights off. A bowl
of water and a rag in her lap
Mouthing prayers of thanks
for the mercies of
oscillating fans

And all the economic sinners,
worse than mangy horse thieves,
were last seen on Monday
climbing over the side
into the deep chigger shade,
or up beneath the overpass 
where hell’s chariots churn
the unforgiving asphalt breeze