chester giles writes

split shift

i drank the shadows in the park during my lunch break

   my knuckles raw

and bleeding now and then

old men waiting on the soggy benches

 with the slats dropped out

like perverts wearing coarse nylon static,

scratching their brittle bones the same as wet electrics sparking

like strip lights in dank cellars

the blood on the back of my hand

dried around the sore and cracks,

and all those translucent shadows

 between the railings

   the stones

 and the branches.

I sat there just breathing

Old Men on bench -- James Coates