Don Winter
Old Men at Wanda's Grill
They are forever hurting themselves,
spilling hot coffee into
their laps, falling
loosely as trees,
and breaking their arms,
or worse, their hips
with muffled explosions of bone.
They are wheeled
somewhere, out of our sight
for years at a time.
To make conversation,
the customers ask
if they are still alive.
Then, certain mornings,
the front door empties
first one and then another
of them, hobbling to the counter
on crutches and canes,
as if afloat on the morning
light, and right side up if only
for a time.
Page(s) 26
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