In a little donut shop,
as we call it here,
they gather every Saturday
to talk about the village dear.
One of them can barely hear,
another has lost his mind,
all with snowy-white hair now,
seventy years behind.
One of them is diabetic,
his hands begin to shake,
and the other, big and heavy,
keeps needing bathroom breaks.
One believes he’s wiser still,
he talks about Viagra.
“A great thing!” says the deaf old man,
“and I’ve been to Niagara!”
They speak of pretty young girls
and the priest’s long robes and sashes.
“But I have peppers too,” he says,
“and very large leeks!” the deaf one flashes.
They don’t see the state they’re in,
yet boast of their romances.
They forget their grandchildren’s names
while their bellies shake and dances.
Two pretty girls pass by them then,
and suddenly they’re quiet,
mouths wide open as they stare,
their eyes begin to follow it.
Passing close beside them,
one girl cheerfully says, “Good morning!”
The old man tries to answer back—
his dentures fall without warning.
Noon was getting closer now,
their hunger soon began.
Each one helped the other up
and slowly off they ran.
One walked bent and leaning down,
afraid that he might stumble.
The other stared up at the light
for green to stop his grumble.
“Won’t you take me to the other side,
so I don’t lose the way?”
“And I will bring you back again—
I won’t refuse today.”
And so they go back and forth,
the two old fellows strolling.
Three o’clock was drawing near,
still through the alleys roaming.
Sklithro-Zelenich-Sebalći 