We return day after day like migratory doves
to newspapers, books, the blue light of CNN
with the mute on. No, the local news is more important;
A friend’s scheduled surgery, another remarrying
at age 83 to a babe ten years younger than himself.
Coffee and donuts, twenty-five cents each
from the bakery uptown, sprinkled with jokes
we’ve told dozens of times before.
Lunch; turkey a-la-king, Friday fish
for Catholics who swear they’ve never heard
of Vatican II. And the seating: always unreserved
which we’ve nevertheless been reserving for years.
Then the tables cleared for our games of canasta
that have gone on longer than forever: four-handed
if you don’t count the folks commenting on each trick,
none of us ever trying for trump but rather
content to simply lay down our hearts.
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