Afternoons Without Spoons

He does not care for his thinning hair,
or jokes about his solar panel
from men with still more pate displayed.
While losers talk of gambles made,
the wise and silent enjoy the shade
and cool, cheap and calming beer,
remembering who died last year.
Hills disappear into summer haze,
tarmac dissolves into shining
pools where krakens could yet be.

He does not care for his Spanish lair,
or talk about the shopping channel
from those with still less money to spend.
These afternoons that cannot end,
measured not in spoons, my literate friend,
but coffee grains spilled in pooling beer,
and arid hours of desperate cheer.
Days disappear in summary pills,
the blues dissolved in dining
rooms where lovers could still be.

They do not care for his bitter stare
or how his trousers remain flannel
in spite of heat that soon will melt
the plastic of his chinese belt.
Their raging hatred remains heartfelt;
scalding words in a last incendiary beer,
they wonder why he and they are here.
Phils’ Septembers with hispanic Mays,
the Jeans caress their younger, whining
knights where caballeros would once be.