Our only hope for Peace lies on the gum-riddled, spat-on brick sidewalk.
Dirtied, stepped on, about to be blown away.
Our only hope for peace. Passively waiting to be acknowledged, revealed. It waits to be accepted, followed, believed.
Walk by. Rushing. We’re late for class. We need to buy a gym pass so we can go and work out our asses so we can look good and make passes on the best people in the bar.
We don’t have time for thin, wavering arguments, without enough weight to hold them down. Just trying to be heard downtown on a busy street corner.
Call the coroner. It’s turning blue.
Why should I believe you? I have a million things to do. Bet you didn’t even go to school.
Our only hope for peace is wrinkled, slight, not many people think it’s right. It stays there all night, if not brushed away somewhere else, close by, far away. It’s here today, don’t really know what is has to say. (Do they?)
It doesn’t have a good look about it, ragged at the edges, wedged between an apple core and Bank of Montreal door. Looks sore.
'Our only hope for Peace' is right there, written on pale blue recycled paper. Didn’t even stop to pick it up. Would you?
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