Threads of Lives

By Vincent R. Pozon

I scrolled down the newsfeed of my phone
and walked into a babbling of friends,
years spoke for them, retirement was flashed
as badges and permission to whinge.

Gouty fingers misspelled their rancor,
they reached for devices upon waking,
a frown, a retort before coffee,
responding to barbs before breakfast,

the ribald before the washbasin,
before thanking whichever god
they pray to for the bearable aches,
for allowed liquor, for fairish lives.

Once I counted twelve in one thread,
friends I knew before Facebook met them,
ill-behaved and boisterous as boys
and carping as curmudgeons.

We had talks that shouldn’t be so public,
they kid with thorny words, sniggered
about the greying of hearts and loins,
they are mulish men with little to lose.

These threads are threads of their lives, perhaps
more truthful, for here they let on without letup,
here they live, hobbled maybe, darned
by doctors repeatedly, but whole.

The cheer and temper, entombed in threads,
we saw each other infrequently,
but here they are, sauntering about,
the screen of my phone as promenade.

I can hear the salty chuckles, the plaints
about money and wives, here is soused joy
I will not hear standing by their tombstones!
Here is a thread of dead men talking.