In a small city, big town,
solitary men on a lamplit, otherwise dark, otherwise empty street,
one in a hat, jacket, no tie, calling out in a reedy voice, expressing, relieving sorrow
—another, keyed into what’s been said, responding--
a third, encouraged, crying out still more piercingly, brass in his throat
—the response again--
the two criers calling out together
—response--
and a fourth, big and gentle, tall and upright,
unheard before now, stepping from the shadows, 
speaking in his bass,
has what all think is a good idea.
    
For many blue bars
the men sit together in a bar
with its otherwise solitary men, their hats and grievances,
the responder saying what the others, moaning and nodding, know,
then telling his own story in this low-lit room,
shining new light on the stories of the other men,
whose eyebrows rise like blinds, 
and this calls for another round
’round midnight.