Vagrants and Loiterers

You got that clean waistcoat,

the bright white of a well-tailored

shirt, you got those loose-as-sacks

slacks and some spit-polished shoes,

and you know, whether you are looking

like money, or about to take a stroll,

to tilt that hat like you own

the world; yeah, smoke your pipe,

roll your tobacco, and hold loose

as authority, your muscles, lithe

and hard; and every so often, when

you feel the urge, you reach into the waist

pocket and pull out that watch on its

chain, then look in the sky and say

Gonna be a cold one when it come,

like God gave you that fancy clock

to tell the future. These are the easy

boys of the goodly South; waiting for

what is out of frame to happen:

the sheriff with his questions, the

paddy wagon, the chain gang, the weight

of the world. Waiting, with such delicate

dignity, fickle as the seasonal sky.