New Occidental Poetry

The Dead at Noon

The men come slowly, slinking in the sunshine.
Ties askew above rumpled shirts.
Eyes stay stuck on their shoes.

Some students meander on their way to the library.
They look more lively,
But keep to their cell phones.

There’s a few elderly out for a stroll.
The blue collar types sit on flat-bed trucks;
Sandwichs and cigarettes divided between them.

The unemployed are inside, stewing.
Some bums are panhandeling—
Loose change rattles around baseball caps.

This is the noontime scene everywhere.
There is no diversity at lunch
Like there is no diversity in the grave.

- Benjamin Welton