On a barstool, recalling smoking on buses, to Joanna,
I suggest all workplaces, will eventually ban her habit.

By noting “no egg,”
“VEGAN” appears on the till’s LCD.
I make assumptions about her customer.

Words like “GAY” and “BISEXUAL,”
are cast, from a dozen feet behind me.
My radar’s sensitive, so I fake disinterest.

There’s a Tweed, flat-capped, and bearded young man.
Unlike me, he doesn’t talk to the blonde and braless,
Joanna. Age accommodates sociologically.

I mention “Bommy” night to her,
leading to weather predictions,
based on a wet yesterday.

It’s about mood: that common denominator.
It’s “old-git-ish” talk, not chat-up stuff.
Ironically, a beard aids the latter.

Dave Allen’s topical on Facebook.
With the middle-aged relating,
hipsters ponder Reconciliations.

Returning from the basement toilets,
I check music ads: “Margaret WHO? Joe WHO?”
I guess they’re no-marks. Some guy in an overcoat
heads upstairs. He’s BEARD in my peripheral vision.

He sings the Beetles: “Michelle.”
I’m wed to one. Past paranoia
forces me to decide, if there was sound at all.

I leave. In minutes a bun is spotted.
It decorates a young man’s head.
Then I contemplate the generation gap.
“It’s me,” I accept, quickly expanding “WTF?”, audibly;
and resigning to incrementing age.