Every Wednesday, on the dot at 9 o’clock
(unless the weather’s bad) the old guys meet.
Same table at the diner, though there’s fewer
of them now than 30 years ago.
Same talk of fishing, hunting, home repairs, who’s born,
who’s died. Two cups and a donut in, they talk
of who did what to whom and when.
Of course the facts get bent and worn
when told a dozen times or more.
They smile and wink
hello to other folks who sit to eat.
They are official greeters, warm the seaters
in this small town they were born in,
where they’ve lived, and where they plan to die.
published in Sonnets to Sing
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