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