Diner

As we weigh the benefits
between pancakes and matzo ball soup
conversations flow and flutter
all around us, peak gossip:

“So then I got the EKG”
a woman with a teased and frosted bob says,
holding court over her booth.
Her companions nod, impressed.


In the middle of the dinner,
a trio of older men:
“So there I was, he shot the guy in the hallway.”
The two listeners shrug their shoulders in unison
a universal "what else would you do?" reaction.


I settle on the crepe-like pancakes
while I'm left wondering
what type of gun fight transpired.

Same guy, the witness to, or perpetrator of a crime,
five minutes later:
“For some reason I lose ten years—"
[unheard]
"—prision."

His table mate, cross-country skiing to a new topic:
“I’m gonna be eighty in December”
The third man:
“Eighty!”

Second man:
“I read that if you hit eighty,
your life expectancy expands”

First man:
“I heard that”

Third man:
“Max, you’re not gonna make it”
Max: “You said it”

I cut into my blueberry tall stack
while I eavesdrop on
the woman across the way:

“So she was fixing the cage for it,
and it flew away, and she was sad.
Said it was like her baby;
kept her happy. And now, gone”

Gone, girl, and so are we—
after we pay the bill with twenties,
grab a dollar-fifty homemade doughnut
off the counter display
tinkle the doorbell
exit into the August heat
while the hot tea spills and swirls inside.