the men

the men, hands folded,
still, quiet stones
in
their seats.
something has robbed
them
of joy.
call it work, or
a loveless marriage,
call it disappointment,
but
they have no
memory of youth.
they are tombstones
tilting
at the party,
long faced like fishermen
with empty nets.
you can almost
read
the etching in marble
of their birth
and death,
almost, not quite
underground.