Polished Shoes

There they are,
all stacked
neatly together,
wrapped tightly
with three men dieing
under polished shoes.

A black man,
salted hair
and scared face,
something quiet and unsettling,
next to two brown men;
one Mexican,
the other,
a little different,
the three
lie face up,
smelling like years of scum
crammed deep inside every crevasse;
in ear sockets,
nostrils,
fingernails,
every pore in the men's wrinkled,
cold faced,
permeating its
stink from
their mangled hairs.

Scum whipped off
the careful shoes of
chicken-legged,
pale-faced
men
with dark suits
and combed hair,
chewing slow and loud,
not looking down
or towards one another,
just stiff,
and forward,
laughing,
and mimicking
each others snide comments.

They are under a tall ceiling,
erect with coarse pillars,
intricately decorated
and in perfect balance,
shielding them
from hard rain.

Water comes in slow,
flowing down
slight embankment,
wetting the men's shoes,
and soaking
the three unfortunate,
dead,
now smelling soggy.

Fancy men
with pale faces
know how soft bodies get
when wet,
but they stand
on the men,
on faces,
stomachs,
insides now seeping out
scum filled pores,
dirtying once polished shoes.

Rain turns to a river,
sinking the dead men,
leaving everyone
knee deep
finally looking down
to see the depth
of the rising waters.

Panic is too late
and the men's shoes,
buried deep beneath
the soil now,
are lost,
on top of the unfortunate,
while dieing dark suits
turn pale faces pink.