They Meet for Coffee

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