strange old men with their own mores
more's the pity,
the world has refused to age with them
and they with it, and so
they come with morning
(do they forgive the day its youth?)
with their big drills
and cigarettes
and boisterous voices
these are their tools
and at breaktime they smoke
and yowl at me in the streets:
“nice legs!”
then back to grinding up the pavement
just to put it back together
the hum-drum-drumming of the drill protects me
at least I know they're busy
and the city's still alive
(I'm still alive, I breathe in streets and alleyways)
and when they hold the door for me,
I still say
“Thank you.”