The retirees have started to grow out.
Philip was smoothly shaven and he sported
expensive ties and scents, and now about
an inch of fuzz softens his jaw. Reported
to spend his whole day on his boat, he steps
into the office twice a year, looks round,
his smile now genuine. He waves and schlepps
his mail home. Mark makes very little sound,
he who used to bark out orders; saggy jeans
replace his suit-pants with the knife-sharp creases.
He brings us squash, tomatoes, carrots, beans
grown on the acre garden plot he leases.
They do not carry briefcases or keys.
They stand there, gentled, genial as trees.

 © by Janet McCann.
 Used with the author’s permission.