The old men in the coffee shop
Bitch and moan, bitch and moan,
Damning to hell the excuses
They hold for their lives’ failings,
Convenient-through-distance targets
Framed in their caffeinated sights.
Sunday they’ll all thank Jesus
For whatever shape they’ll be in,
And the old coots will mean in,
The way they mean the way they laugh
At the blonde-haired, freckled girl
Who suddenly walks though the door,
Her smile exclaiming, “Grandpa!”
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