Even at the most
bankrupt
of bus stops—folks
still gather;
all kinds—some clutching
soft cups
of what looks
to be decent hot stuff—while others
with their rough
hands rubbing their
charming long faces—
cluck back
and forth—in
complicated tongues,
but not
without a detectable—sweet few
notes
of resignation—on their breaths
regarding
the weakly abided
rudeness
of—our weather.
