His heels rasped the asphalt, and his 

the curb. Another one bent before 

the subway stairs to shit.

That one I had seen bent over the rail

to the new condo units, groaning. 

Haven’t seen him since.

There are many men, and some women,

and they’ve become fixtures like the flowers

that grow on bricks. When I call home,

I think of their tremors and cardboard captions,

and worry we’d end up laughing 

to mask our discomfort until we lose it

while chewing ice.