Passing by a knot of businessmen, Their suits betraying lack of exercise; They hurry on with panic in their eyes, I almost feel like one of them again. Beyond them, fathers playing basketball, And sons press on in classic rivalry, Their struggle at the game might clearly be A fleeting recognition: that is all. A cast of pie-eyed indigents halt by, And smile from miles beyond the present curb With graveyard voice and fuck as every verb, They look as human and as dignified as I.
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