An Old Chestnut

This is an old poem about the noon luncheon at our local ASO (AIDS Service Organization), The Nebraska AIDS Project:

Luncheon

She's there every week;
an infamous Grande dame
of every ten-minute
"before last call" diorama
of missing-cocktail
stage and screen;
if it's a good day,
and the old girl feels up
to a personal appearance.
Or she doesn't have an appointment
at the clinic.

Every once in a while
you can see him,
that leatherman
with the twilight-piercing eyes,
the solid new-concrete body.
He scared the hell out of you
three years ago,
but now he has a cane,
and his stories tend to trail
off. . .

The talk is quite polite,
as all share a proper lunch;
you can hear the snickering
of past-accused conquests,
of moments best left
between the pictorial
and the phone-sex ad.
("She's got her own stall
at the tea room near the
coffeepot on I-80.")
The gasping recriminations
filter and fall
to blend in with the laughter.

People are asked about,
half in memory,
half in a question
like a child worried about the monsters,
scared of the thunder.
News is passed back and forth
with the entree, and some men
move outside to smoke.

If you look really hard,
you'll see someone new,
watch his body tense
as he takes it all in;
the nameless recognition,
the caustic wondering,
the tabloid-layout
predictions of horror
that flash across his face
when he sits in the corner.

A weekly last supper;
the slight boost of basic
human recognition
brought to you
by the army of buddies,
and contestants of the new game
on the circuit.
The roulette-ridden warriors
of all the best tall tales,
given a break from the shuffle.