here, in Atlanta
amongst the cities misery
are their lost, the dysfunctional
those wrinkled and smelly
the young and mindless
those who played drums
in fields of flowers budding
those who've listened to voices
of promise
those that said: "Follow me."
those always being led too
to wait.
She is here
fixing, thinking, watching
coached too
by conditioning
under wire brush hair
inside those pouting lips and
skin so dark
Inside the square
behind the polished sand
her children
show her the way.
Obtusely she asks
"Would you drive, all this way for
narcotics?" This mind tells her
"Can we dispense the professional bigotry?
Can we find a balanced medium
from our past, from this pain?
Can we drive
farther than 
all this monotony
this narcotic?
Fix the fuckin' solution.