I was so on the clock when I wrote this

They all walk
with purpose, downtown.
They fear
being caught gawking
or wondering.
Panhandlers always
chase the first twinkle of
awe. To be caught
off the trail here
means certain
change purse death.
They're staring at me, now.
At the shrine of cigarette butts
I've erected to the deity of
warm weather absorption.
At the collection of pages
I hold that look nothing
like memos
and legal briefs.