Saturday morning, 10 a.m.
And the old men are drinking Brahma from small glasses
In a windowless bar without a name
The metal curtain door not entirely rolled up
They stand smoking and sipping in the entrance
Observing the housewife heading home with bread
A youth in Havaianas poking in the garbage for diamonds
The bar is unlit with folding metal tables and chairs
Decades of grime coat the textured paint
Broken cobwebs in the ceiling corners
Accumulated dirt, smoke, talk, grease and laughter
Somewhere in the dark, a kid working the counter
A sudden shout is caught in the webs like fly paper
Time is the settled dust from other Saturdays
When they were younger men. Here comes another,
Zipped up, limping across the street
Late to the ritual that has already started, never ended
They peel away a bottle cap and fill a fresh glass
And pile up the minutes a sip at a time
