I like the craggy, weather-beaten
old men with nicotine stains
on their chapped knuckly fingers
and few remaining teeth. I like
the way they stare at you
with their faraway cynical blue eyes
and take you in, visibly unimpressed
with the ridiculous person you are.
I stand among them, occasionally
forgetting not to smile, nodding
my head sagely, losing the beat,
in my polyester suit, my despicable tie.
They allow me the honour of infrequent speech,
spitting (very politely) to the side,
reserve spoken judgement for the sake of my family,
then mutter, grimly, about the price of sheep.
