The Senior Line

The tix are free so people wait For hours, sitting on the grass, But we are old; to compensate There is a bench to plop one’s ass. By half-past eight, the benches filled, The ticket-seekers settle in While late arrivals, not too thrilled, Allow the side-show to begin. They make us move so they can squeeze Their bodies on a proper seat, Without the courtesy of “Please” (Ticked-off, no doubt, at their defeat). A flutist sets his stand and plays; A grouchy woman bids him cease. He grumbles when nobody pays, His music, though, a sweet release. The conversations ebb and flow. We people watch (the pickings fine). I bond with folks I do not know; That happens on the senior line. The hours pass; we get our tix. We’ll meet again when it gets dark To share in summer’s yearly fix Of seeing Shakespeare in the Park.