Plastic
is what the barrel smells like
plastic and rust and burning
and burning plastic. and burning rust.
And the flames that lick at his leathery hands
they want to scar him
to mark him forever
but he's been marked.
and each line etched in his face
and every pair of pants worn down to thread
and the smell of sweat and blood in the sleeves
of his stolen jacket
they are all saying something
but they are silent when he finally speaks
"Humanity is an illusion.
The idea that a person is more or less human
by how they act
by how they treat others
by the path they choose
is absolute bullshit.
we are all human,
even the least of us."
He gestures at me on the last line.
The least of us.
The others raise handfuls of cigarette butts to some unseen deity
offering prayers spoken in broken english, drunken slurs
tongues, I thought, they're speaking in tongues
and I looked up into the flat gray sky
and I spoke with them
"things not unseen
things taken across
away from me, and yet...
those people
they are people, are they not?
animals, beasts, subhuman, feral
but no,
these are people, like you
like me
mothers and fathers and sons.
daughters. sisters. victims,
but also
killers, madmen, crazies, addicts, dropouts.
but human
through and through."
It's raining ashes
and I'm blessed by whatever god they're worshipping over there
hunched over a burning barrel
drinking malt liquor
through cracked lips and tar-black mouths.
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