Poem-A-Day: Day 125

Shit Shooters

Old men talk to each other
in scat-like gibberish,
and I, the outsider, am left to pontificate
on their alien language
somewhere between jive and banter.

I’m no better,
saying nothing in silent observance
of some mythic act
that happens every morning,
or so I believe.

They look on me,
and wonder what my problem is,
and why I never say a word,
why I merely smile,
and nod like I approve of nothing.

They obviously know something
that I do not,
otherwise, what point would there be
in gathering at a gas station coffee machine
to shoot the shit for hours.