Some mornings a man
gets up, eats a chapati
and carries his briefcase
to the Subway
while another man
drinks his no-pulp orange juice
behind the counter and doles
out cigarettes like lottery tickets
kissing Mary with each sale.
Meanwhile a woman
ties a scarf round her rough hair
the perfectly good one left in room 102
by that no-good painted trollop
and her big boyfriend.
She pretends it’s a tip and tucks
under the rosette end.
Later each stops by and looks up
to the green woman holding fire over the Atlantic.
Paying pricey respects;
line up, take turns stirring
the big bronze pot.