Telephone poles droop with black spaghetti lines on old wood that leans from waiting too long for no one’s attention, While the cars have bumper stickers, door dents and left hands constantly leaving their coarse language flung out like flags and dusty rugs As the girls walk with their hips double tight jeans, teased long tresses black black lashes with red lips because they want to be something else than The older ladies standing in lines with thick wavy arms and faded orange hair glaring at the eggs and pushing carts angry at old stoves and tired husbands While men remember when they ran the show only stopping not staying for coffee, when did their careful hair fill itself grey ashamed of hands that have lost their magic