A Poem by Poet Hound

Coffee at the Gas Station

Every morning they gather
like crows on abandoned picnics:
Old men at the gas station
on highway 19, Old Town,
all lined up along a concrete
low-wall “telling lies”
as my grandpa always says.
It seems as if they appear on the cusp
of dawn, delighted to be awake
at an hour that would leave
bushy-tailed squirrels astounded.
They sit together with steaming
hot coffee and fellows older
than Plato describing their lives
in the past and updating them
with taller and taller tales.
Small town Florida presented
in a bright sunny postcard
cannot capture the sunny
and silver-haired men populating
gas stations across the sunshine state.