In the hours between dog and hyena,
they still serve lunch to a certain crowd.
He toddles in with his baggage:
a cane an oxygen tank a man-purse
an ample wife and her sister leading the way.
The machine that was the man is now
rusting, teeth rounded off the gears of time.
They take their time, as time is
all they have left, and with much animus
and screeching of sliding chairs
the women choose a table to our side.
He is not there. I am not here.
I know this man. Years of
running a business,