Cold Toes in the Boots of Time

I used to push on the dark streets late at night, early in the morning, grinding down the edifice of concrete, permanence.  We have built these monuments to ourselves, forgetting to include the invisible, forgotten hordes cowering in the unseen corners.  The shunned and the sick cry out from their corrugated tents, "When you have less than nothing, I will know your shaking hands and cold toes because they are mine."