A doorway pours darkness
over the noontime street.

Men with ancient topography
carved into their faces
squint through the concrete glare.

Their broken marriages drained
down filthy sinks, scarred hands
twisting gray beard curls,
camouflaging their rages
on a backdrop of ritual boredom.

A young woman sits at the bar
holding a quiet child in her lap.
"All men are scum," she says.
"Can somebody watch my kid
while I go make a phone call?"

© Bob Rixon