The Fellows at a Breakfast Joint

By Andrew R. Duckworth

It wasn’t some franchise,
Just an old breakfast joint
Full of old folks and farmers.
They had their table each morning.

By seven, it was filled.
They were a loud bunch,
Old, but young in spirit,
Taking their time through talk.

Some have made their mark,
Taken their bow and exited stage.
The others, who knows.
But maybe that will be me one day-

A kid in old skin
Without a care in the world.

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