Along from The Candy Bar, a topless place
on Queens Plaza South, our bus is sat in traffic
beside a parking lot, a quarter-block of badly paved tarmac
surrounded by chainlink and patrolled
by an empty wooden sergeant’s box
covered in pricing information.
Two men (quite silently
beyond these headphones) are punching
a third man repeatedly in the face.
This third man, a victim one supposes,
is laid out on his back across the hood
of some late model Buick or similar.
He looks unconscious,
his arms limp at his sides
attempting no protection.
The punching men appear hugely disinterested,
their faces being the only parts of their bodies
not getting significant exercise.
They are busy. They are punching.
The bus moves on
and I just write about them is all.