Drifters

In a quiet suburban neighborhood,
He sits under a streetlamp,
cigarette pursed between his lips,
wearing a hunter green bomber jacket
embellished with patriotic and Deadhead patches,
overtop a nice trendy shirt, cleverly hidden.
A bucket rests next to him, the ink on it faded.
But I just know he has a cell phone in his pocket
As our car drifts by, I think I catch the sight
of some familiar white earbuds in his ears.

Down the road, at a Texaco
a platinum blonde fallen actress pumps gas into her Chevy,
a frown plastered onto her waxy face
which has seen more needles and scalpels than
a frog in a biology class.
She turns to look at the boy drifting toward her from the snack shop
He’s young enough to be her son, but the way he gropes her bosom
is not very son-like.

Over a wide open country road,
a billboard towers with a dominating presence.
But the gang gathered along the platform doesn’t fear it,
nor do they fear heights,
as they emulate Michelangelo with cans of aerosol paint
to mark their territory before drifting onward.

Through the clear pane of glass
that separates me from the world as I drift by,
I see a ghost of myself staring back at me,
observing me as I do the same to others.
It takes note of my storing data for future stories and poems,
character sketches and studies.
My muse reflects upon me, and nods.
We drift on together, pleased.