Old Men On Mall Benches

What are you doing there?
Why are you always there?
You’re like decoration
The mall must be paying you
To sit there all day

You never go anywhere
I never see you sit down or get up
You seem to grow right out of the benchwood
Like shrivelled leaves
That never leave

Watching the seasons pass
Watching the women pass
In their yoga pants

Dirty old fucks
Incapable of giving fucks
Or getting them

Maybe you’re all Bukowskis
Mallfulls of Bukowskis
Writing legendary poems
While ogling young women

I don’t understand you
You’ve reached the asymptote of life
You’ve passed it
You’re tobogganing down the right side of the bell curve
And this thing winds up six feet below the chart

Maybe you’ve realized that there really is no more to life
Than curves
Benches and curves
And I just need to get with the program

That shouldn’t bother me
And I guess it doesn’t
It’s just that sometimes
I think
You’re not even real

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