Sherbourne Morning

I begin to understand the old men, parked on benchessmoking a bit of July, waiting for the earlybottle; the large tears of the passers-by, wrappedin white cotton, the world bandaged at 7 AM; when the day goes old, they lean overand nod into their arms, lovers, one-time carriersof their separate hearts; their wives, their childrenare glass partitions through which they see themselvescrying. Love them, or better yet, imagine a worldwithout a footstool for the creased and lame; imagine how thatsun above them spins halos for angels gone berzerk.