177. 3 old men at separate tables - Charles Bukowski

.
I am
one of them.
how did we get here?
where are our ladies?
what happened to
our lives and years?

this appears to be a calm Sunday
evening.
the waiters move among us.
we are poured water, coffee, wine.
bread arrives, armless, eyeless bread.
peaceful bread.
we order.
we await our orders.

where have the wars gone?
where have, even, the tiny agonies
gone?
this place has found us.
the white table cloths are placid ponds,
the utensils glimmer for our
fingers.

such calm is ungodly but
fair.
for in a moment we still remember the
hard years and those to come.
nothing is forgotten, it is merely put
aside.
like a glove, a gun, a
nightmare.

3 old men at separate tables.

eternity could be like this.

I lift my cup of coffee,
the centuries enduring
me,
nothing else matters so
sweetly
now.