142. Salarymen

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In the center of an urban scene

Two men meet –

A deserted park their stage, with

Feathered audience.

Hardly glances traded twixt

Dull dead eyes

As they sag in heaps on rusted bench,

Bemoaning replies.

The elder fiddles with his briefcase

Worn with work –

The younger downs his coffee, spiked

For the work to come.

Both in business, both employed

Just to live

But the young will be like the old in time –

Destined to decay.

The coffee dribbles from his neck –

Old bones laugh

Until they pop out at the joint, which the

Youth restores intact.

Thanks are traded, smiles exchanged,

For the break –

To find another kindred spirit

Wandering, aimless.

“UHRAOORA, ROO ug!”

The more decrepit grunts a greet.

“Mura-shalla, booraluh.”

The younger nods, as to agree.

That bag of skin holds up the smokes

That sinewy mass provides a light

And there they sit

Upon that bench

Alike in will

Despite one’s hope

To logically end so many years ago.

Just two men despairing

– One, the future, one the past –

Yet neither knows a proper path

For making lives to last

Or, at least,

They knew it well but chose it not.

The elder crunches out his cig,

Rises – with an “Uck” –

Departs into the browning trees

With twisted branches, fading leaves,

And vanishes atop the breeze.

Our Remainder creaks his head to sides,

Follows suite –

But towards the other way instead,

Heading for the street.

There he joins the scufflers, working crowd,

All as one

Not understanding eachother or life –

Zombie brethren.

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