The Skins on the corner
with their bubble postures
and the Muscles they walk with
swaying their hips
and the Muscles will flex
all their cologne and fists,
the college Punks,
the Emo’s and their skinny
jeans and cigarettes,
the one’s that fall through
the cracks in the dirt,
and the Alien’s,
watching the sun cross
behind the balet of the
clouds
twidling our thumbs.