Saturday Morning, Fremont, Nebraska

"Old dogs," he says, and nothing more.
He needn't. I know what he means.
We occupy a metal bench beside
The highway out of town, evicted
From the clothing store behind us
For complaining that our wives
Were spending too much and too long
To choose, a futile task, such clothes
As could restore their beauty.
"Want some coffee?" "Yeah, I guess."
We rise, and drag our creaky forms
Across the street, and go inside.
We take a booth. The waitress
Comes, a pretty thing, a third
Our age, and, after having tried
And failed, to win her love, or
Lust, at least, she turns, and
All our eyebrows rise. "Now,
That was something fine to see."
A TV's on. A fool is speaking,
Pointing at a map which shows
The places that were bombed
Today. The waitress brings us
Cups with lids. We pay and go
Back to the bench to watch as semis
Lumber by. The sun grows brighter
Somewhere behind clouds. At last,
Our wives emerge, discussing what
They should have bought, but didn't,
And we say goodbye. The world's
Changed, to some extent, as we were
Sitting. Nonetheless, to us, two dogs
Who've gotten old, it seemed to stay
The same.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 22 times
Written on 2013-01-05 at 14:28

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