by Nick Gisburne
A shadow in the dirt, among the dogs,
The cinder seller medicates her skin.
A morning of insanitary smogs
Is promised, if the Weather Sat will spin.
The Flawless, in the Spindles of the Wheel,
Are pumped and primed with zero-algae air,
But she, a Squalid, far too blue to heal,
Delivers dirt to bums beyond repair.
Her cinders, scraped from filters in the Fan,
Will suck the slime from breathers thick with snot.
She trades for trash, for carbon if she can,
Whatever shit they steal, however hot.
Another dying orphan cracks a smile,
Excited for a cinder from the pile.
