the birds at the fountain

all day
they sit at the fountain,
sunning their
faces,
sipping from bagged bottles.
staring longingly
at women
passing by.
they might ask you for money
if you walk
close enough.
they have a car
that needs gas, or a repair,
or they need
bus fare to a place
they'll never get to.
like birds on a wire,
they sit
and flap their wings,
content with where they've
landed, unbothered
by the time that keeps
slipping
and slipping away.