Men share their thoughts with a square. They ruminate and bask. They make noisome worry sounds that build over time. These same men release their tension and wonder how far they've come. They light a cigarette and begin to disagree again.
I know these men to be aimless and childlike. Their ulcers are large as the sweeping drones from meat in a bowl. I know these men to be farmers. They salt to taste. They add vinegar and sweeten with honey. They beat the eggs because they must and the guilt for no reason at all. I know these men to be abridged. They harbor their guilt in a sleeve. They keep it moist and pattern it after television that you and I have seen. They'll take your car and drive it.
They'll open the door and walk away. These men share their thoughts with math until the sky opens and the day is served with gin. These men are a loss. They are a nod towards the vacuum, towards the steps and their dust. These men are bile in a loose sack by the table singing, I'm sorry, so sorry.