I have seen my share of old men
Sitting early in diners:
Widowers, perhaps,
Or never-weds,
Seldom women,
Excepting tired street people,
Tattered bags sprawling
Disheveled out of the wet,
Leaving only when the manager
Steps up with a bottle of soapy water
And a cleaning rag,
The polite symbol of
"It's time to go."

Fast food,
No place to rest,
Up and moving before the family crowd
Can see the riff-raff
Who sat these chairs earlier,
Who hunker now on some lee-side wall
Against the chill spring rain.