As the happy hour crowd
walks down Redwood Street
in its ***** lamp lit haze
they pass by dozens of
cart pushing men in
old bomber jackets
fading into the
unwashed stone beneath
windows newly washed
by minimum wagers.
These men and their
overstuffed suitcases,
their ***** fingernails
and aging shoes,
their cold noses
and heavy breath
seep into the shadows
like long forgotten artifacts
on an antique store’s shelf.
They droop, collecting dust,
begging to be lifted or even
touched.
Some smile and sing
with an overturned hat
patiently expecting
on the street curb.
Some sit, slumped
and seem like
a misshapen lump of clay
in the dark
with plastic cup extended.
The happy hour crowd
coming from UMMC
clad in multicolored
scrubs and pressed
business suits with
golf club cluttered ties
and black silk button down
blouses that block the cool wind
passes them by with the same
glance they give to
lamp posts.