I

they are stiff, callous, and coarse,
as they come together and come apart,
clasping, rubbing,
loose fabric  brushing over darting flames,
sending sparks into the night
through a forest of buildings.
They slowly go through the motions
of what would be washing,
observing, and cupping each other in fists of hope
as breath becomes visible in subzero air.
They could have been made of bronze,
chisled in prayer--
a paperweight,
before they melted back into humanity.

II

The man they belong to,
His quarters are off to the side,
between buildings
and a door of moving mannequins.
When the sun rises he can sleep
until the wind picks up
and drags the unpressed paper and leaves
around him, upon him.
His clock is the plastic pounding the sidewalk,
as it quickens and slows to a stillness.
And still he lies
upon our garbage, our news -
a paperweight,
holding down the stench of humanity.