On the doorsteps people sit on drinking beer. They watch a jogger who doesn't belong there. The light turns green, and a car just sits and idles. A car horn blasts. A window goes down.
Someone yells something about sleep.
Shut up, someone replies. You go to hell. Now there is a lot of laziness in those lines, and that is exactly what I like. And both poems end by themselves, without either the poet or the reader having to do any work. It's too much weather.