"Sketchy," the bartender says to me
Of the two men who came in
And asked if he had a restroom.
Sketchy, they were not customers
They were drug users, sellers, purchasers
Looking for the privacy of someone else's locked door
I watched them in the mirror from
My stool at the bar, indirectly
They were sketchy, mere impressions
Of men. Not fully formed
Lines in the vague shape of
heads and bodies, coats and jeans
In and out and moving on,
Back to Mac's Motel or the Bay City Motor Inn where
They are staying, or one of them is anyway.
The other might be living in a tent under the bridge
Where women run with jogging strollers,
Expensive bikes pumped by spandex legs fly past.
Different sketches made with different pencils
None of them impervious to eraser
If the artist has a change of heart.
