Dinner at Spillane’s

The Order of the Gray Mustache 
gathers at table four, 

Where we meet each month

like clockwork to toast Aleve

and the head achieved

mixing weed ‘n oxy.
Everyone’s had a cancer scare

and needs glasses. Has a parent

showing signs or is planning

a trip to France.
Our ladies lithely grace the room and

we’ve leveraged ourselves for fine wine.

We’ve tamped down our hyperbole

and take a pill, from time to time 

to tighten a muscle 

or lighten the load.
We binge watch now and read what we read.

Listen to Monk when the girls are out

and play the hits when they’re in.
We still hold some resemblance

to our past though we find our convictions flinty. 

Our prayers too small to touch the sky. 


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