Thursday, November 7, 2013
Each morning at exactly nine o'clock
our fellowship of grizzle-headed men
meets at McDonald's, métro Frontenac.
We take our customary seats, and then,
despite the posted warning, PAS DE FLÂNAGE,
drink discount coffee for an hour ot two.
Surrounded by a motley entourage
of East-End Montrealers, we outdo
each other with our lively poppycock.
Long since returned from distant Neverlands,
we turn a deaf ear to the ticking clock.
The manager is kind. He understands
our joie de vivre, our order of the day;
refills our cups, and grants that it's no crime
to hold our own; and though we overstay,
to squander what we've left of change and time.
( © Catherine Chandler, first published in Alabama Literary Review)