The Incident

The indirect lighting moved the mass
In rows of semi-solid fluidity
Its color far too unnatural
To feel any sort of comfort by its presense
And the scent it carried was further evidence
The pile in perpetual motion
Lay in a place where it did not belong
Yet the men stood around the mass unflinchingly
Holding shovels; wearing concerned expressions
As their leader attempted to light a cigarette
With shaking, sweaty hands
As he nervously laughed at the expense
Of his shared misfortune