Each day amongst the shanty lives
trading must begin anew
for earth-space, water, fire and work
[for now, at least, the brownish air is free]
At the Building site
The keeper of the gate has begun to palm
The famished ounces of quiet bribes,
And to usher his chosen ones
Through the gate space,
Where they will, by further promises,
Be permitted to heft their shoulders
Into the gall and gruel of work,
So that a morsel,
Trimmed by exacted percentages,
Might fall their way.
Otherwise,
Men who stood before the gate,
their eyes brimmed with tall expectations,
Must trail the weight of empty hands, empty pockets
Back to the shanties,
Where children are launching imagined craft
Away from the stench of earth
Into pools
That are the colour of Keen’s Mustard.