One evening, while on the Western Avenue bus, I saw something you don't see much in Chicago anymore: Two old friends standing on a street corner talking. I imagined that they did so frequently, so familiar did they seem, and wondered what they might be talking about. Then I wrote the following.
Every evening at
eight forty-five
two elderly men
in windbreakers
and a rottweiler
in a spiked collar
gather outside
the used car lot
at the corner of
Western and Byron
to solve the problems
of the world, only
to find that, by
the time they cluster
their heads once more
at eight forty-five
the following night,
the world has filled
the cup back up to
overflowing again.
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