Stump Sitters

We always end
up in the wrong place -
the last always being
the worst -

sharing our bed
with dying wasps,
and a half-way house
for the homeless

to sit outside and smoke.
Someone's always there
making hubbub of indecisive
moments from somewhere,

something still at work
deep in the city
that contains half left
dreams and broken promises.

But who would we be without all that?