Coins

Frozen headlights on a bruised street,
where echoes gather and meet.
Sirens dissolve in acid rain
where gods are called out in refrain.

A child on the curb can taste,
engines fat with fuel in haste.
Coins can’t count hunger,
when billboards thunder.
An abundance overhead
while tiny palms beg for bread.

We call them gnats,
they call us disease,
a plague of indifference
spread with ease.

A scene restaged each day
on pavements worn to clay.
My question twists the choking air
who staged this play and left it there?