sits outside the Loyal before it opens,
Budweiser in hand. The radio in his lap
blares “La Grange.” I nod hello. His eyes
might not be open behind his sunglasses.
Hours later, the bartender scolds his
friend to go home, that he can’t come
back inside. But not that guy. That guy
just leans in his chair.
                                          In two days
that guy walks up York toward the river,
wears a coat too warm for June, but he
doesn’t seem to sweat. That guy, he’s
a legend, a machine. Later that day,
he hangs at the bus stop–real chill–
and slouches down a cheeseburger.