PLACE OF ROUTINE
At nine o'clock
on a Sunday morning
substitute teachers
and assorted old men
read their papers
and drink black coffee.
Looking out from that
foodcourt McDonald's,
all the doorways are
barred by metal gates;
and the puddly parking lot
had been empty
some few minutes before.
Women with wrinkles
walk quickly,
pumping their arms
and holding cups.
Watching people go about
the echoey halls,
between department stores,
I get the feeling
that it's something to do
every week.