Ripples of lard peel from their skin,

as they point at a blinding screen,

displeased from muffled voices,

yet not the slightest alarmed,

to an iron puddle gathering,

in cracked gravel lots. 

To these people of suburbia, 

festering in the midwest,

sees it as proof for a lack of shells. 

Passive silence from this pale audience,

provokes the growth a wrinkle of denial. 

In the fogged eyes these numbers are more ink

than a shadow warmth of human.