THE OLD MEN’S TABLE
Written during Nancy Slonin Aronie's excellent workshop "Writing From The Heart"

Every Sunday morning
There they are
Bright eyed and watch capped
Grinning slyly
As they solve the problems of the world.

No topic is off-limits.
Israel, Congress, and Viagra
All fall before their quick wit
And infinite wisdom.

Laughing uproariously
They pontificate over their coffee.
Five guys.  None less than 70.
Three cups of regular, one decaf,
One dry cappuccino stirred with a tiny spoon.

Three heart guys, two hip replacements, one kidney condition.
They compare the sins of aging.
They’re a riot, and they know it,
These coffeehouse regulars.

They’re proud that the barista knows their names.
They all think she’s cute, worthy
Of a vaguely recalled hard-on.

I’m reading the paper
Drinking my soy latte and chewing my bagel
Occasionally trying to eavesdrop.
They could care less.
I’m not invited.





GENERATIONS

What’s that bump on your face Ama?
Squelching humiliation, I say,
Oh, old people get bumps, sweetheart. 
It’s because we have so much wisdom.
We just can’t hold it all inside, so
Out it pops.

Now, when he’s bored,
He places his small finger on my bump.
He says I’m taking all your wisdom, Ama,
And you don’t have any left.
I am now supposed to be simple,
He is now wise.

With great seriousness, he explains things.
This is where the snow comes from, Ama.
Those are stars, Ama.  They are far.
You can’t run in the street, Ama.
And he is comforted by his wisdom,
While I admire.

When he tires of the game, or
He wants me to read to him,
He puts that finger back on my bump and
My wisdom comes back.
He is comforted by me being a grown up again,
And I work on accepting my bump.