Honorary Wax Works

Or hollow skins in bus terminals
Made to look human, complete with smell
And sense of sorrow, magnitudes
Of sorrow, barcodes of failure and leftover
Sandwich wrappers crumpled
Like old women in babushkas, like crosses
And borrowed nails quilled
Into breakfast ads and corporate distances.

Only the departed know what endurance is.
Only we are waiting to be included
In the museums of human failures.

You know us? We outlined your warnings
And premonitions of gutter-hood. Sir?
Sir? Do you know your flower’s wilting.