Barrel-bodied old ladies
waddle from shop to shop
on impossibly thin ankles,
exiting empty-handed everywhere
save Sal's Salt Water Taffy,
where Fredo (there never was a Sal)
hawks his denture-clogging confection
using flattery and charm.

Young men
ride a low rumble of automotive muscle
accompanied by too loud and too much bass.
Their predatory glances
leave no visible mark on their victims.

Young women
draped in parental disapproval
gather in assigned clusters
to receive shotgunned mock entreaties
with delight or disgust as desired.

Benched old men
take in the sunlit tableau
wishing only
to be put back in the game.

- Greg D'Unger