This is a poem about three old men who meet up at the Chocolate Cafe to reunite, written by Kim Groshek
Three Old Men at the Chocolate Cafe. A Poem, written and performed by Kim Groshek
Three Old Men at the Chocolate Cafe.
A Poem, by Kim Groshek
A bright sunny morning,
Mid-town USA,
Her workday just started.
Holding a tray.
Two waitresses zip,
At the chocolate café,
Picked-up the tip.
That some old men pay.
Door-bells chimed lightly.
Men elderly walked in,
The waitress smiled politely,
Waving them in.
“That’s right it is Wednesday,
Can you take their table?
It’s those theee men again.
I am Unable.”
They grunt and sat, when you,
One bowed silently to pray.
Perused over the menu,
Soft speaking at bay.
“Always complaining and talk Allot,”
She experienced the rebuff.
“The foods cold or hot.
It’s never enough.”
Fully dim-witted,
The waitress said,
“I’ll take their table,”
quickly she tread.
“Would you like coffee?”
One nodded his head,
“This chair is hard, Gaddafi,
Then broke his bread.
“I’ll find a cushion,
And I’ll be right back.”
She placed the mug down.
He said, “his name is Jack.”
The old man continued,
“We made it through.
We had half pound butter
the whole month, or two.”
“I remember that.
It didn’t go far.”
A plate set on his placemat.
“Please no cigar.”
“Are you German?”
“No,” that was quick.
“Originally Austrian.”
His accent was thick.
They came back each week,
Each Wednesday unprepared.
Friendship they seek,
With the breakfast they shared.
Not much long after,
A month just like that.
One of the old men,
never came back.
There were only two men,
Wear cardigans plus hats.
He prayed, then Amen.
A club of story jurats.
One man blurted-out,
“I had five older brothers.
They couldn’t back-out.
Enlisted with others.
“The two didn’t come home.
The third did come back.
The barnyard he roam.
Swinging a whack,
Loopy and fruity,
He lost his mind.
He clapped and laughed,
Like a toy he’d Unwind.
Nickering, Naffing
Like a three-year-old crore.
He just kept on laughing.
And sat on the floor.
My mother cried.
My father watched the pack.
Nobody tried.
He held his tears back.
The week of thanksgiving
always was rough.
People Reliving.
It was tough.
One old man intently,
Was very alone.
She set his plate gently.
“Are you the only one?”
He lost a good fellow,
He gulped and said, “yup!”
“I think I should go now.”
Then slowly got up.
She helped put his jacket,
up over his arms.
He put on his hat.
Hobbled master-at-arms.
She stood there alone.
Tear-whimpered cries.
Tight twisted stomach
Then wiped her eyes.
The last time she saw them,
Those three older men,
She kind of liked them.
Whispered, “My name is Jen.”
Those thoughts often a rosed,
Each week on Wednesday.
Stories old men posed,
at the chocolate cafe.