Fred Hudgin New York Every morning I join the waves of commuters crashing on the steps of the escalators As we rush from the warrens of the PATH trains to desks which anxiously await us, Ready to spend yet another day climbing the walls of the concrete canyons to make money for someone else. The sky I glimpse though the temples of Wall Street is full of clouds pregnant with rain, Trying once again to wash the filth from the gutters into the filth from Albany. Street people offer their paper cups like a chalice as I pass in which I place my penance for being part of the working class. Construction workers lean on their shovels when the sewers grow tiresome or their beer bellies empty, Parading their lust like peacocks for every woman to ignore.
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