Coffee and cigarettes congregate like

the masses of addicts of sip and strike

do, in their ways of cold wooden benches

like men at war, tense in their trenches

till too-late comes and legs wander home

by muscles and wheels and well-worn chrome

and moon peeks through clouds in windows shown,

a puff of white smoke and it feels so alone,

drifting soft thoughts on the day’s feelings strewn.