At the Coffee Shop – poem by Bruce Majors
They gather each morning
around the table, and discuss
nothing in particular, a quartet
of old men.
There’s so much sadness in the world.
With wrinkles and emaciated smiles,
how can they think of anything else?
Their eyes fall on the loneliest
faces in the room.
Age does not satisfy as we once thought.
With it comes the knowledge
things will not change. We are
not better for having experienced the
pains of life.
The conversation is sparse on this
cool October morning. As they
sip hot coffee or tea, one or two speak
in low, monotonous voices. Thought
I heard him say cancer, but maybe
he said censor.
Out on the street, the fog had not lifted.
Red lights, barely visible.
Somewhere in the din of invisibility,
a siren screamed, and then another.
Probably been a wreck over on the bypass,
one old man said.