They sit on benches
in the middle of Broadway.
The women give off faint
bouquets of essences long retired.
The men wear white sox
with their shiny black dress shoes.
Sometimes they talk together;
often they talk alone
to no one in particular.
Mostly,
they just sit and watch who they were
as the crowd scurries across the divider
to beat the light.
I start to run too,
but the bench-warmers catch my eye
and I freeze.
There is room for one more.
As the light turns red, I wonder -
should I reserve my place?