Not So Sweet

We five have known each other more than 30 years.
Post-pandemic, we meet for coffee, joking
that we’ve become the senior citizens we used to see
drinking coffee all morning long at Macdonald’s.

Ours, however, is not going to turn into a daily event,
all of us claiming to have plenty to do, almost as if.
We’re all wearing slippers and shorts, the casual dress
of the lazily retired and idly clad in whatevahs.
I suppose we could wear pantaloons if Amazon sold them.

I’m the only one eating cake, possibly because
I’m the youngest and have the best chance
of burning off calories, my metabolism maybe highest,
the way the bar’s set low, as if you can still limbo.

All of us are single now through divorce or death,
and me, the lifelong bachelor always alone.
We email and tag each other on Facebook posts,
but we’ve been wondering more about the great beyond.
The plan we develop this morning is that if we don’t
hear from anyone for a little too long, we’ll hurry
to the silent person’s home to check whether
he may have fallen and can’t get up, or worse.

Like the cake I’m eating – the frosting most dangerous –
we’ve put life’s layers together, and we’ll finish off
with an icing none too sweet by this point in our lives.

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