The Medicare card has still not arrived.

The Medicare card has still not arrived.

Tables and chairs

Sit quietly

Arranged in groups

Of four together

Gathered around a table,

Benches to the wall.

There is something about them

That demands attention

A token of discretion

Every word spoken

Barely heard but understood.

It is in their orientation

To be just within earshot

Of one another

Perhaps a little further away

Than some.

For the secretive

The stand-off-ish

Anti-social type

The boor

The lovers

And the spy,

The corner booth

Is almost hidden

Surrounded, partitioned.

The Trotskyists would love it,

Perhaps some of the others

Could be persuaded

To transition,

Become more discreet.

There is never a word said

Before the opening,

The tables are well-behaved

Smartly attired

Fully aproned,

Knives and forks

Chaperoned.

Chairs scrape the floor

In anticipation

But rarely pull right out

Until occupied

And all the while

A whisper of aged oak

Drifts down from the gallery

Where the fine crystal class

Gaze down upon

The assemblage

With nary a thought

For the patience of the tables

The prudence of the chairs.