we have old people strewn all over the streets,
wedged in building hallway corners,
they are leaned against the tall trees.
with their bad hair and surly natures, bellies out,
lower lips out, shoulders really down,
thursday friday saturday sunday
sleeping.  monday through wednesday set aside for gripes,
telling stories that are lies,
cheap afternoon luncheons.
thick, burning glasses on crumpled faces.
something’s amiss with the slacks
and the terrific smell and we would appreciate not having to deal with it.