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
and going into their kitchen
to fill his thermos with hot coffee.
As if nothing is impossible,
as if it is an ordinary day.