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.