Leaning against the red brick wall,
feet pressed on the cobblestones,
filthy fingers holding lit cigarettes,
probably bought from the Exxon around the corner.
Tight, ripped jeans; worn, faded jackets;
hands caked with mud and dirt, washed
probably two weeks ago, maybe longer; and ashtray
mouths.  “Y’all want tickets, or you just gonna stand there?”
I ask.  A couple shake their heads,
long, greasy hair swaying slightly,
their faces illuminated only by cigarette glows,
hidden from the city lights by hair shadow.