another poem from 8:95. rather symbolic of the feelings lately - esp. from the containerboard mill ....
OLD MEN WITH LANGUAGES OF THEIR OWN
they spoke in riddles
old men with languages of their own
old men who had their own myths
from places so far away
they never were real
they fumbled with napkins
as the waitress tried to hurry them
they counted pennies & dimes for tips
like it really made a difference
when the dark wind spoke to them
with fog & blackened leaves
they seemed deaf
they just hobbled along avenues
like they had all day to get somewhere