Conversations at Fort Restaurant

By Andrew R. Duckworth

Photo and editing by Andrew R. Duckworth
Filet Mignon.
Medium rare, if you please,
The finest cook, with ease.

No, no, I am quite bored of dinner wines.
Perhaps a scotch.

And do you remember what humor was like?
How laughter was once commonplace?
No one laughs anymore.

The cynic in me questions why one laughs
In a world hellbent on throwing stones
Through glass windows of an otherwise
Sturdy home.
It seems our adults are but children
Who never grew out of being toddlers
And throw tantrums to get their way,
But having no sound argument to say.

The cynic in you misses the humor.
In the world that you describe,
Reality indeed,
Lives endless irony
Of faithless children adopting creed
While offering their harsh critique
Of those that dare to do the same.
Life, it seems, is but a game.

But a game of both the fool and the wise,
A surplus of the former,
Glaring through hateful eyes

At all of those that they despise.
If life be but a game, as said,
It is cruel until the last one’s dead,
A game played mostly in the head,
Where reason is tossed out instead.

Why do the cynical search so much
In those who remain out of touch?
There do exist those who still live
And little more than humor give.

But those, my friend, are very few
Who understand your point of view.
The children masquerading as mature
Cannot through humor hope to endure.
Such change the world has undergone
Where down is up and right is wrong.
Laughter no longer holds a place,
Gone! Vanished without a trace!

My good friend, we must change our tone
And leave enraging points alone.
Should we discuss a better time
When life was at its most sublime?

I cannot remember such a day,
As time has placed its distance there
And a cynic mind can rarely find
Some piece of good in which to share.
Yet, hope remains some place I know,
Perhaps some further room to grow
Even with the spoiled among us loud
And in their self entitlement proud.

You do have hope then, my good friend?
Some hope to bring a better end?
A cynic giving up his tone,
Not bearing living life alone?

You do not seem to understand
That one must expect the worst
To ever truly live in peace.
When one expects the very worst
And keeps a cautious eye at the best,
One can never be disappointed.
When one expects the worst to come,
The best surprises.
The worst does not.
If one expects the very best,
The worst surprises,
Bringing one down a notch.
Now, where’s my scotch?

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