when no one else

will bother them,

while the world of their dreams

is sleeping in the street

the old men gather 

at Starbucks.

They talk politely, 

one at a time, making

little speeches.

I overhear mention 

of wars and floods, and

the time the cow got out.

One of them does not talk this morning

of the nightlong dancing and the 

small kiss she gave him,

the things he never can forget.

He’s quiet,

simple and composed, a soldier

stung with dreaming.