The wares.

The wares wear no grins

but smooth leather gloves

on their hands, their skins

worked and tanned to the

finest grade of italian wallets,

their pride is etched into

the black lines that sweep

across their palms.

The industry of the north

took careful aim at the heart

of these wares, it's arrows pierced

their judgement and made them

hollow to nothing but dignity,

never will they sultry a tear

down their dust stained

cheeks.

Where has there been

replaced a place in chest

for dilligence in thought?

A place where mind waltz's with

other consituents of emotion

and yeilds the real feelings?

In the middle of nowhere.