A covey of old men
perch on a concrete park bench.
Their wattled bob - their heads nod.
It is warm enough to be without shirts,
and they watch the young men who are -
remembering when they could.
They are too aged to wolf-whistle,
dry lips peel in the light of day;
but they appreciate every curve and *****.
Pecking at morsels of life, they spend
the hours of their afternoons.