The old men drink coffee and talk
about politics and sports and weather
while they do odd jobs around the church,
fixing a door closer, mounting a TV screen,
arranging and rearranging chairs and tables,
every Tuesday morning, week after week.
They love the church, and they love each other,
though they never say so until one of them dies,
and even then they just say something like,
“You know, Bob, he was a hell of a guy.”
