Crying Uncle

When did disheveled become a fashion statement?

My new millennial buddies and I are banished to the pew,

A device of torture conjured by a Puritan carpenter.

We, each guilty of the crime of wanting a table without our other.

When did that piece of café arrogance become a "thing"?

My seat, not a cushioned Episcopal pew, but the country Baptist bench.

It was there we contemplate the depths of our sins,

The planks pressing, mercilessly, against our legs.

No Presbyterian's grape juice for this errant Anglican,

"I'll wash away my transgressions with a glass of Pinot Noir."

Some relief, Marley is serenading us from a speaker next door.

There a pub and we, aural thieves, awaiting our noodles,

While like-youngsters, with different appetites, paid for the music in beers and burgers.

Our hosts, waiters, and chefs are bearded monks.

Their clothes, a testimony to their vow of poverty.

The patrons, denim-clad, shod for comfort,

Paunchy thirty-somethings, choosing to wear their Levi's gangsta-style.

Some were sent to the oasis by their others to gather.

More came in pairs to feed at the trough.

Perhaps, one eats while the other stands guard?

I, the ancient bison, am tolerated, but warily watched.

"Maybe we could push him out if we joined forces."

I have the advantage of being the weathered warrior.

I fought these Highland battles, when they, still on the teat.

We all await our others.

"What old cow will be his?"

The anticipation of her, always ecstasy, is doubled.

I did not seek to surprise, but I will take my reward,

The wait, worth their astonishment.

She is everything to behold in a panoply of blues, elegantly high-heeled.

For all their rejection of the sophisticated, the exquisite,

They still want it, when they see it.

Every little boy desires a Ferrari even if he must settle for a Kia.

I revel in their disappointment and covetousness, their anger at the unfairness.

I knew it would be like that, but fools,

We are not some bovine at the water's edge.

These are not heifers to be mounted in preparation for spring.

They see the dazzle, but I see the light,

A brilliance that emanates from the soul.

She, too, must do her penance on the church bench.

A few minutes to take in all that is her before we join the herd.

We finally take a seat at the bar, which is non-communal.

We have entered an alternate universe where the bar is privacy,

And the tables are for communion.

Perhaps, this is heaven, where the wretches in rags are first,

And we are camels faced with the eye of the needle.

We sit at the altar with the congregation below "passing the peace".

This is indeed a fundamentalist revival with the sheep braying,

The flock shrieking, shrilling, and squawking.

Yet another reason to avoid salvation.

Dinner passes too fast as it always does.

I walk with her for a bit to assure she gets to her car safely.

The quiet of the street, a relief.

Finally, reverence and solitude, but fleeting.

Our Highland hug the thrill of the first, a year past.

We exchange untruths, "I will talk to you soon."

Her words belie a reality we live each day, every day.

I will reach out to her in a hundred ways big and small.

She will remain immersed in her quietude.

I rarely take it personally, it is part of her charm.

It is when I miss her most, though.

For the briefest of moments surrounded by the din,

The fantastical becomes the real.

She was mine because the scrawny bulls believed it.

A deception that brings an old bison delight.