This morning the old farmers plant in the same
chairs from the previous day. 
Habitually, up with the rooster
before the sun, morning chores are done 
 so now they flock.

Evenly rowed across the diner,
swirling coffee with the prices of corn
and soy beans, harvesting the same mixture of hope
and despair,  heavy with cream and sugar 
or cold, bitter black

they’ll take it.  They sit, moralizing lessons of Midwest survival, 
and yield to the Golden days from times before.  Just like
images of their own fathers, shoulder to shoulder, hard
times identify each age spot on the farmers’ hard, cracked skin.