Sunday Strangers

The running mouths that hum indistinctly are
Pulsing between the sound of an engineer
Trying to get noticed and turn all our heads
As the man with no legs walks by us again.

The pinstripe snow pants and virgin-white hat
Make a man doing business look like he's reading a tract
And contemplating his fate for the rest of the week,
But at least he's not wearing tube socks with shorts.

The reincarnated Minneapolis man must be
Running for office by the look of his mustache
And how he shakes hands with the motorcycle gangs
And lazy cooks who wander around and pretend to look busy.

Perched on the corner of a dead flower box is a
Baseball cap with a sound on its brim, trying to
Blend in with the dry, cracking paint, but if
I wait until tomorrow it might be too late.

The wind makes it difficult to start up this habit
And breaks it for some who can't be around the smell
Of a gun that's been fired up into the air,
Dismissing the clouds and inviting the sun.

A man who sounds like a preacher is giving his pitch
And speaking above them to seem more convincing.
His gesturing hands are seen in reflections
That add even more nothing to meaningless words.

The last half inch of what keeps me awake
Has now gone cold but I'll take it anyway.
As I start to get looks from a large, jealous ape,
I'll smile at the film star who's scared to get old.