Threads of Lives

I scrolled down the newsfeed of my phone  
and walked into a babbling of friends,
years spoke for them, retirement was flashed  
as badges and permission to whinge.
 
Gouty fingers misspelled their rancor,
they reached for devices upon waking,  
a frown, a retort before coffee,  
responding to barbs before breakfast,  
 
the ribald before the washbasin,  
before thanking whichever god  
they pray to for the bearable aches,  
for allowed liquor, for fairish lives.
 
Once I counted twelve in one thread,  
We had talks that shouldn’t be so public,
they kid with thorny words, sniggered  
about the greying of hearts and loins.
 
These threads are threads of their lives, perhaps  
more truthful, for here they let on without letup,  
here they live, hobbled maybe, darned  
by doctors repeatedly, but whole.
 
The cheer and temper, entombed in threads,
we saw each other infrequently,
but here they are, sauntering about,  
the screen of my phone as promenade.
 
I can hear the salty chuckles, the plaints  
about money and wives, here is soused joy
I will not hear standing by their tombstones!
Here is a thread of dead men talking.