Breakfast at The Café

I live in a little town where the
average age is pushing
or pushed past sixty.

This morning, at my yearly, self-imposed,
post-christmas,celebration,
over a big steak
medium-well,
"no blood, please",
I read the papers and overheard:
“I can't breathe through my nose !”
Their conversation segued
to a friend that had
his jaw bone scraped
because his screw-in tooth
didn't take
after the implant.

The four,
bent over their eggs and noodles,
pondered how much
air should they put in the Posturepedic
for a good night's sleep,
then they realized they
had ordered
stir fry
for breakfast
and this was disconcerting
somehow.

The littlest, frailest lady
Said she missed a question on the
driver's test because she didn't notice
the picutre of the tiny hand sticking out the window
indicating a right turn.
This woman drives
a three ton SUV through town, with a
pet Llapso tucked under her chin
as she maneuvers through mid-day traffic
with a double latte in her good hand.

Yesterday, I ate my soup
as some geezer described his eye surgery and the
story about a friend that
had his eye removed
while they scraped
cancer out of the void.

I wished for the days that
people kept their intimacies
to themselves, or excused themselves
if they belched or made wind
fiercely enough to make
the silverware on my table rattle.

I scraped more lean
meat from the bone
and finished my meal.