Hang up your pictures little girl.
These people must be smoking a lot of pot
And look how happy they are,
Their faces in the morning.

And they're not at work (praise)
Numbed out of their minds
With America's real addiction:
More and more money.

These people are waking up slowly
With their cigarettes and coffees
And each others unwashed hair,
Smiling and talking.

They have those special eyelids:
The kind that don't open all the way.
They can laugh outloud already
And it's not even noon.

There is a cop who has joined
The conversation at the bar,
Bullet-proof vest and badge.
He cups a hand around the tip of his unlit cigarette.

I'm surprised that he's able (strike a match)
To comfortably join in the conversation.
Nobody seems to mind
His crewcut.

The policeman leaves his spoon in his cup
When he drinks,
Tips the ceramic toward his face,
Looks like he could lose an eye.

Everybody and I mean everybody is smoking.
A boy dislodges a few crumpled bills
From a front pocket,
Orders another espresso,

Turns toward a girl
With traces of blue in her blonde hair
And says, You look different today.
How is that?

Excuse me, Can I bum a cigarette?
He tucks the cigarette he's offered
above his right ear like a carpenter's pencil
and lights up one of his own.

(Now that's planning ahead.)

Well, these are my people somehow.
And if that makes me a slacker,
A bohemian, an artist--
Whatever the label,

At least I didn't have to shave
This morning.
And because I'm not punching your clock
With my pummelled life,

I can wonder, tongue in cheek,
(By living a life that I actually sort of like),
Will I add, (so to speak),
Five days to each week?

. . .

copyright 2001, Linford Detweiler