We hold hands across the table,
laughing at something, gazing at each other
as we do, with infinite fondness.
A waitress chugs up, breathing heavily.
“Aren't you sweet!” she exclaims, and smiles brightly.
Meaning, perhaps, we are inappropriate,
adoring each other while white-haired:
we should be distant, grumpy, bored.
Some people like to see it. They're not the ones
who comment: beneath the voices
of those who do, there runs a trickle – a gleam
on the basement floor – of hate.