The Columbus Chronicles

At 6 am I watch them, the men, one woman

They stand on the sidewalk in front of the alcove and

they don’t talk much but their bowed heads and their

shuffling feet, cigarettes puffed quickly, speak to

not who they are but what they are

They are thirsty

They are anticipating liquid breakfast

They are uneasy from a night spent dancing

and drinking and making connections with ghosts

They get out of bed with a mighty thirst to ease a

banal existence.  I’m not dead yet, might as well drink

They look down at the sidewalk and tap their heels or shake their heads

an unconscious gesture, shaking off regret, depression, lost chances

but the “Open” neon sign lights up, the door unlocks

and all is right with the world for just a few hours