Grasphing Hands

For their silver futures
As the huge, golden mirror
Dashes the gray sheen
into portable bits of
a miraculous trash.

Passed off to the touch
of the rolling rain of
light, as it pours through the
blank shadows, faces
blank, shoulders hunched.

They
who dance
tangos, twists, the Harlem
Shake, but only when no
one is looking, and time
has decidedly begun
it's slow march back
to a worn, rigid standstill.

From each shadow,
gray though it be, silver
as it's own darkness,
a carpet behind it,
empty hands grasp at
tri-chromatic straw heads
and wicked intentions
which clank and whisper
coin-sounds in my ear.