Poem with the Shades Drawn

Old men, some of their time,
Some before it, mostly
Smokers and meat grillers,

All white, none with money,
None with regular work,
None with live-in partners,

Live alone in small rooms
At the motel, renting
By the month. They don’t fight.

They mostly stand around
In fine weather, smoking
And chatting quietly.

Too hot, rainy, or cold days
You’d have to put an ear
To their doors to hear them,

That is, their TV shows,
Except for two of them
Prone to fits of coughing.