Increasingly frail, those who still have

breasts and balls, agree to keep grief
down to the minimum as bronzed leaves
blow over tired feet.

Rocks to sit on can’t be reserved,
so when a plump lady, built like a fireplug
plops down, all we can do is hope she leaves
before she discovers we are a club.

Nick is late. Nick is always late.
He moves like a terrapin, writing down
names of birds as he gathers Boletus
on the way to cheer up his ailing wife.

Rocco usually forgets the date,
but he may be praying at Saint John’s Church,
to make sure he’ll get last rites
since Shmulke entered his family life.

Priscilla, with the scent of patchouli,
always very punctual, will soon waltz in.
After a curtsy, she shows her photos
from Wyoming of lilacs and laburnum.

After getting his bladder zotzed,
designed to dazzle his fate, Ike arrives
with unique recipes for beef bourguignon
and chicken cacciatore with endives.

Since Mr. Berkshire passed away,
Nathan enjoys life in his Hyundai,
and will present financial advice.
He never learned how to worry.

Rizzo teeters on top of the waterfall
singing a melancholy aria,
lamenting his long lost mate.
He still can’t believe she’s left him alone.

Our weepy poet reads when he arrives.
To sidestep the sweep of the scythe,
he reminds us to tap the creative child within.
Where do we now go for lunch?