To garner respect under their watchful eye
He gathered the gold-rimmed dust, the dirt, the crumbs
And wove them into a tapestry of pride
Their glassy eyes, tumblers full of island rums
That hum of panic, soul’s departure drum will
Lead one down those syncopated streets one
By one, tongue to the sidewalk, sweeper mouth still
Searching for nuggets of gold, thread to be spun.