Almost a century gone.

The stocks were collapsing

onto captive Americans.

Dreams destroyed, diminished.

Each man completing

arduous task and arduous task.

Compensation?

But, One Three Six Eight

One of five men scavenging

Hunting for job to support

A wife and kids. And a

Hopes of a house hindering.

Fighting for the future

No longer. The only goal.

Survival.

On, One Three Six Eight

Decisions of desperation.

Each child a hock

to the machines and

two dollars. Two dollars

for food, for the day. Dreams

Existing exclusively in

Darkness.

For, One Three Six Eight

“An’ life off the fatta the lan’”

The heinous have the houses.

Cheating us for their hilltop

view. Of men like mice

scrounging for change.

A doorstep out of the reach of.

Beggars.

To, One Three Six Eight

A decade before,

the sock hop days

of youthful nonchalance.

The room filled beyond

max capacity. The fire

came and left us burnt.

Writhing.

Before, One Three Six Eight

Their ancestors with,

hopefully, a better life.

Still to come, three percent

die in World War II.

But, that will be the economic

savior to our war-dependent.

Sweatshop.

After, One Three Six Eight