Old Men in December

Bushy eyebrows, bald pates, strong opinions, and strident tongues,
the five old men sat round about the table to talk.
There seems no end to the stories they tell on the south
side of town. "I tell you what, I got such a sheen
of wax on my Jaguar, if you put a towel on the hood,
it would slide right off." All but one leave their coats
on, and one goes so far as to not remove his ball cap.
But even though one speaks of another meeting he has,
there is no sense of urgency predominate or present
at the table with them. They have grandaughters and ex-
sons-in-laws. They speak confidently about their companies,
failed hedge-fund operators, and how it is too cold today
to play golf. And aside from their comments to passers-by
they happen to recognize, the quasi-clubhouse marvels,
without ever so much as a sleight of hand, one another
the way those who showed and telled the day after.
In sixteen days, the presents will be exchanged,
and this cafe will surely be closed. The very next day,
though, these five may well happen to share the same
table, and their monologues will go right on.