They bring to the table
Nothing except a smile, and a
Few facts they have
Moulded into stories and myths.
They recite their tales,
Altering nothing every time,
As over years the rhythm has been
Perfected.
A new audience, new reactions,
Keep things fresh.
They ask for no reward, no applause
For their words as the night draws on,
The Earth turns, and
Moon or no moon,
The glasses slowly drain,
Ashtrays fill
And the stories continue.
They speak for the sake of it.
The joy of communion,
Talking and listening,
Being human.
The next day the table stands empty,
A stained, ignored protagonist in
A thousand dramas.
A single ray of light shines on a half full
Glass of stale beer.
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