Undercover in a Cafe

Undercover in a Cafe

 

The three sat at their table

like an elderly summit meeting

running a play by play

of clandestine activities:

“Look, Joe at the door, stooped

hard to believe

he used to teach phys ed.”

 

“You know he

shouldn’t be driving now

his hands are so numb, doubt

if he can even feel the steering 

wheel, he picked up his coffee,

couldn’t feel it either, spilt all over,

there he goes shouldn’t be

driving, damn fool!”

 

I looked around me, in the cafe,

at 70 something, with my cane

parked at my side, probably the

youngest one there, I stared at

my book, The Gentleman from Moscow,

listening to every word like a Soviet

Cold War spy.

 

Cafes now are extensions of

Senior’s homes.

Popular hubs of intrigue, 

subterfuge and sharing 

of the everyday aches and pains

“My arthritis was flaring this morning,

couldn’t get my socks on 

too far to the floor these days”

 

“I come here because they have

free refills”

 

“Just makes me pee too much “

 

“I hit the John before I need to,

its an avoidance thing”

 

“Doesn’t seem to be working!”

 

There are hubs like the one near me

each a sleeper cell of secret activity.

Information is passed, stories exchanged

medical histories shared,

Behind enemy lines, who will ever know.

 

Marty