Lips And Assholes

Between eleven and two
Monday through Friday
Fashionable strangers surround
A hot dog cart
And wait like ashes
For their sizzling fat tubes

A routine broken
As a woman bounces
Off a screeching delivery van
While crossing the street

The people
Who usually swell in silence
Take turns
With what they saw
How it sounded
And when it isn’t one of us
Wrapped up
And stuffed in sack
Still warm
We feel obligated
To act more alive

Or
At the very least
A little less dead