the long grey line

I shift my feet in this long line.
it goes slow.
I look at my stub,
I put my hands in my pockets
and jingle keys,
change.
will work for money.
I see the same men every day.
walking
from the bus, smoking
quietly, the ashes matching
their eyes.
a smoldering.
lunch pails with them
in case
a day comes through.
hard times, with hats pulled
tight.
shirts buttoned,
old shoes
shined.
the hunger a caged lion
inside.
maybe today a finger will
point and say
you.
maybe today
there'll be drinks,
a paid bill, a bag
of groceries the rent paid,
no longer past due.