Someplace, maybe from a dumpster,
comes new words from hands scummy
in life waving a scrap to be heard;
perhaps, these hands are ours, our words
quivering as we shake pictures of our mothers
and fathers—not for the lack of love,
but for the love of money; we could
puke like politicians pacing the floor
for more, more this is good for you and me;
but our words are dirty and new
and wanting nothing but to be heard.

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Bill Simmons lives and writes in the San Joaquin Valley in California.