The white vans driving out of the city,
Out to tall, beige crematorial kilns,
They have your life and hope in green boxes.
Tomorrow you may be smoke in the air.
You have seen the white vans in the city,
Parked on side streets and under bridges.
You have seen them driving through alleys,
Graffiti vanishing from brick as they pass.
The white vans move slowly in the city,
Circling apartment blocks and ragged green parks.
They idle in front of cafes and storefronts
By empty meters for hours every day.
In the city broken glass is swept up quickly,
No cardboard blankets the pristine sidewalks.
Listen: that sound is side doors opening
In white vans. The white vans. The white vans.