Men At Work

Hipshot on the zebra by amber light,
Bum cocked, knees spread for room, a little bent,
He picks away at his crotch in plain sight,
With unhurried, scientific detachment.
This isn바카라™t a preliminary to sooing
So what바카라™s he doing?

바카라˜They바카라™, actually. Men. Fingers in their flies
At crossings, in offices, while eating;
Are they boy scouts, flashing signs? or spies
Semaphoring cryptic greetings?
Or are they simply trying to stay in touch,
Given they don바카라™t get much,

Or any? Sad cowboys trapped in Easterns?
No mesas, punchers, ranches, spurs or steers;
Never a campfire where the mesquite burns,
No saddled horse to get away from tears 
A Vespa sometimes, borrowed from a friend 
No girl in the end.

Cold planets of the rim, for whom the sun바카라™s
Hot serial comings are a distant fiction,
Each spins its axis on its lonely runs,
And finds some tepid joy in friction.
But they aren바카라™t all feeling up their forks
For champagne corks:

Often they바카라™re just checking on their there-ness
(That testing question, 바카라˜Am I still around?바카라™)
For that바카라™s the node, the nub of their awareness,
They바카라™re saying 바카라˜I was lost but I am found.바카라™
Or else, as chronic losers should,
They바카라™re touching wood.