Lunchtime in Boston
		I sit alone in the red shadow Of a canopy, my arms resting On the cool, glass table. A distant clock strikes twelve. With the seconds come droves Of men and women wearing Business suits, their uniforms, Clutching briefcases. I sit and watch them Trying not to melt under the Humid Boston sun. They order sandwiches, And sit briefly while they eat. Just as quickly, they're gone.