We passed the old church for a photograph; the bells
still toll on the hour. Everyday, as the first note

of the dull brass chimes, three little old ladies
scurry to the bench nearby, squeeze themselves on,

bunched like crows on power lines, and pass
between them the share of a lone cigarette

that dances on their lips like a tiny glowing worm
as they chatter and groan in the cold.