I left my bag open,
And my poems spilled to my feet,
I tried to gather them up but all in vain,
Now they say there’s word on the street.
There’s word in the alley ways,
There’s word on the windows,
There’s word under the card board box,
Other wise known as home by the man they call homeless,
There’s word on the doorsteps of millionaires,
There’s word on the soles of the brave,
There’s word in the hearts of the weak,
There’s word on the windshield wipers of forgotten classics,
And on the wise bumper stickers of overused rust buckets,
There’s word on the pulpits of empty churches,
And in the aisles of crowded movie theatres,
There’s word in forgotten car manufacturing lots
And in over accommodating slums,
There’s word on the knick knack paddy whack that gives a dog a bone
And swimming around in the yolk of the distraught humpty dumpty,
There’s word on the backs of the whipped,
And in the eye of the oppressors
The word is out there,
Spreading like a virus,
My feeble efforts to bring it back,
Can only but fan the fire,
I left my bag open,
And my poems spilled to my feet,
They called it littering, little did they know,
That’s how word got to the street
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