Grabbing a quick lunch
at a local bistro,
I eavesdropped on two geezers
in conversation at a near-by table,
speaking loudly,
as old folks tend,
of dining experiences in other restaurants.
One codger reminisced with the bravado
of Tet Offensive veteran.

“…and then this waitress
come over to take our order.
She was so bubbly,cheerful,
so solicitous of us,
making sure we ordered what was
best for us on the menu.
A smiling, cheerful light bulb, she was!
This was before my Margret passed.”

“God rest her soul,”
The other intoned.

The teller continued.

“I enjoyed it for as long as I could.
But,
when she called me,
‘Sweetheart’
well,
I slapped her across her ass,
hard as I could.
Pulled some god-damned muscle in my shoulder,
but I think she got my point!”

The two old men sighed a satisfied sigh
and sipped the last of their coffee,

as their waitress cowered behind the register,
dreading her patrons call for their check.

They winked me a sly wink
as they sauntered to the exit.
The straight-man
gave the comic a poke.

And I was glad to be an insider
in their often performed joke,
kindling-fuel,
to warm their hearts
in the few years they had left.