Old men, retired. They sit at their favorite table, resigned to decaf. Chatting about fishing or gardening. Or wives, often in past tense.
Pieces of their lives shed in hour long visits.
They come every day, same time, same chair, same faces. Until one moves on. To hospice or nursing home or beyond.
A vacant chair waits patiently.
Another day a newly old man joins. The remnants of youth drifting off. New old faces chat. The cycle continues.
Younger men eye the table warily, and watch their children grow too soon. Knowing a chair waits for them to come along.
My shot at the 100 word song
