Ragged Men
Shuffling, one by one. Men of disease and conviction and histories. First the clean ones, without the kindled ember of lunacy behind their eyes, that thirst for decay and relief. They travel their way back from the wilderness but aren't yet there. The line and walls are a way station, narrow as they are. Some have remained there, making a home that's not meant to be and aborting half-willed escapes and running through the laps one after the other; tripping, falling, and starting over again. But theirs are the footsteps of God. The chairs come next and the crutches, given special designation and a forefront to the feast of modesty. They say nothing other than barely audible monosyllables like primitive grunting. They're missing feet and they live what pity is felt when they're seen. Before long the barricades are opened and the brunt file in and await their meals. They're handed a tray and sustenance assembled through machinery that's scattered but swift and accu...