old men of chiang mai

old men sit bent over wooden tables in chiang mai alley ways. they come from somewhere, not here. but it doesn't matter now. they were white once, no more. the color of the streets, now. the color of the chair, the table, the shadows they find. their bones are twisted beneath their skin, their necks crooked, like trees beaten by decades of wind. along their quivering laps their fingers dance, playing staccato melodies across their knees. their tongues move in and out of their mouths, like fish gills gasping for water. hidden in chiang mai's alleyways, old men, once young, men gasp for life.