OLD GUYS ARE BEIGE LEAVES FALLING INTO AUTUMN PUDDLES

old guys
    out
    on
    the
fucktown street 
    with
dead cocks of dance hall tales

    worn cog hips 
    roll 
    clogged with plaque 
and time 
and  factory waste

brown
blunt
orthopeadic 
feet 
shuffle slow 
determined and deliberate

    with
    dull muscle memory 
    of
the pitch and shudder of wooden-decked destroyers
    South Pacific 
      underage 
        and 
         lying
 
their
slacks 
are
shapeless beige
    and
    grandkids bulge their wallets
    and
      a hundred years of keys jangle on one ring
        and
          like
    camouflage
    in the autumn sun
    their
jackets are beige too 
bland and zip up
    and
      bought 
        from 
          Saga back pages

    up 
    the 
    paper 
    shop 
in pairs like unionised dinosaurs
    they 
      lean 
        on 
          gateposts
     their
gone low balls
    drained
    by
shore leave 
    and
    gravity
    and
    the bewildering long grind
        of
        change

today their lives are on the history channel
and
made
into
toys
and 
games