A park bench affords old men leisure time to cull sounds from the air and snatch acorns
from branches high above a busy street.
They meet here every day making their way
from small enclaves tucked below street level
and back rooms shut off from tempting sunlight.
They talk of old wars and forgotten times
when streetcars clanged against the summer heat
and long lines wound around movie theaters.
They wear Bogart smiles and Gable mustaches
and speak of FDR as next-door kin
and they talk of winning on dirt diamonds
and visits to relatives in small towns.
And when the world intrudes, they pause to tip
a cap, pat a child, or watch a girl
being swept away by a passing bus.
They fuss and fidget but mostly they just sit
and let the sun have its way like children do
when sleep begins to overcome their play.