They sat, huddled over a blue recycling bin,

Much the way that cowboys or cavemen

Might have gathered around a fire.

Neither did the men have the beans to grub

Nor wild game to rip from the bone,

They had peanuts, Viginia’s finest roasted in the shell and

Salted just right.

The sound of the shells’ cracking was the wisdom of the nuts

Inspiring conversation on a higher plane

Than that normally expected from the muscle minded trio

Raised in the gym teacher legacy.

Their personalities different,

One a settler, suited perfectly for the pasture or 

A life of being handy.

Another an orator, blessed with a lightning fast tongue and

A contacts list bulging with connections.

The last a dreamer, lost in the alchemy of pragmatism and hypocrisy

Where black and white squashed gray.

Once the conversation moved beyond crosswords and condiments,

Serious sociological analysis followed with debate of

Finding trouble or being found by trouble.

The Settler opined that there was no trouble

When attachments were not made.

The Orator spoke rapidly of trouble being an opportunist

Able to attach itself to people without cause.

The Dreamer wondered why he got in trouble

When others did the same stuff with barely a reproach.

Through it all the shell crumbs and shards of peanut skin covered the floor

And another lunch passed with large issues

Discussed but not solved.