All along
the detached diagonal
corridor—monday
morning's foggy
West Town brand
of older
young men—
gaunt
but
vague and bravely
late in rising—
stepping each
outside
so cagey
to light
a fluke cigarette
in near-
perfect
unison
with each
of his disconsolate neighbors—
looks
to me—not at all
coincidentally—
perfect in whatever clothes.
