poem of the day 11.17.09

never at their feet

my wife and i
watch a table full of seniors
sit like the yapping dead
on a sunday night
discussing the size of
jumbo shrimp with the waiter
who was supposed
to have had our beers
about five minutes ago.
they are questioning
the exact shape of the food
slurping orange goop
down their aged mouths
while my budweiser light
is getting warm on the bar.
i think about how much
i hate these old people
most of the aged in general
and i do not feel bad for this
after all, they are not plato or socrates
there is no great wisdom to be garnered
in their vacant eyes
there is no hemlock in that woman’s bowl.
and i am not blissfully unaware
that one day i could be sitting in that exact seat
badgering the waiter
about the number of fries on my plate
or about the room’s temperature.
anything is, as they say, possible.
but i’d like to think i’d have
more sense than that
should i become one of these
social security soul suckers
i’d like to think that i’d just stay home
with the television on full blast
drinking ensure mixed with whiskey
waiting on the mailman
or waiting on the blessed touch of good old death
rather than inflicting
the masses with my presence
on a warm sunday night
complaining about the consistency
of tomato soup
and how hard the packet of butter feels.