What belongs here is lungs exhausted
by waiting cars,

oil-dark hands flashing in dim light;
concrete floors cold even in summer;

grime-stained waiting chairs;
air smudged from cigarette smoke

and the near, incessant traffic—
in our ears the all-day whine

persists in echo all night.
What doesn’t belong

is a grown man’s tears or fainting,
even once—twice is reason to retire.

What doesn’t belong is the misfiring
of memory, language, motor skills,

and anger engendered
by a fellow’s misfortune

on display—the felling
of the chain-smoking, capable manager

of our performance-awarded
regional team; what belongs here

is the slamming of a hood
on a job well-done—

what doesn’t is the bending knees
and pitiful un-drunk walking of Larry’s legs:

wavery mirror in which we wish
to see no selves, least of all our own.