Picking The Walls of The Rich

I pick up a tile
Part of a picture
A pattern
Outside the house
One of the houses with lights in
And soft seats
I am back on the bench
The knots remained tied
The powder chewed but not eaten
I am back on the bench
The dull scrape of time against my skin
Inside my pockets
Where there is nothing left to demolish
I make marks with my pen
Leave a note on the statue
Children playing
I will not pass them the rough edges
The margins
Real sound has left me
I have no desire to catch it up
To have it find me
The rec is tested as dead
It says on the sign
A signature
I will follow the clues
Transform the marks into candy
Find a way back to the path
Or walk a new one.
I pick at the walls of the rich
And the tile feels like a resolution in my hand.