They hide out of sight

in the mud-slicked hollows of

corrugated slums,

snatching from the

fattened, possessive world 

whatever

can be clutched in hands 

grown old by six.

They gather in the sewers

of night, clinging to

dank walls

while above them

the adult world rolls

through the city

like a blind

armored division,

scattering fearful leavings

in its tracks but

oblivious to the scurrying

little gullets

that pinch unnoticed pieces

from it

and hoard them in the

unseen vaults

of stillborn

days to come.