Practicing some silent under-water drift,

molded in plastic primary blue and yellow

bus station seats; like paper cutouts,

scissored replicas snipped from folded newspapers

to entertain a child,

these homeless bodies of men.

Hunched in layers, ten of them

asleep in hard cup chairs;

their feet in rotting shoes,

the time three a.m., when suddenly one of them

stands up and stretches

and walks away yawning;

as if this is a decent home in the suburbs,

with children, arms and legs spread out

like baby star-fish in their acrylic blankets.

As if he is leaving the soft mound of his wife's

secret body,

and going into their kitchen

to fill his thermos with hot coffee.

As if nothing is impossible,

as if it is an ordinary day.