He sips lukewarm coffee.
The toast is slightly burnt
And they ran out of strawberry jam.
The eggs are over too easy today
And the new waitress seems too busy
For small talk. She’ll learn.
Instead, he listens to the stir of highway traffic
That he’s no longer a part of.
He shoots what’s left of his coffee
And winces like it’s medicine.
None of this bothers him—
It’s the wall opposite.
He concentrates on Bogie’s gaze:
That Bergman sure was a beauty.
Could soften the most rugged of men.
They'll always have Paris.
He couldn’t afford the tickets.
Some days the empty chair
On the other side of the table
Goes unnoticed. Not today.
He drops a twenty on the table
And hastens his exit.
A voice behind the counter shouts,
“See ya’ Sam.”
He’s out the door.
Tomorrow, he’ll play it again.
3 comments:
I forgot to post yesterday so after today I am 3 for 5 for the week, which is still a .600 batting average. I can live with that.
Anyway, this poem is inspired by an old man who frequents a restaurant along PCH that's on my way to work. I've looked through the window the last three mornings while driving by and seen his head silhouetted there in the same seat. Have a good weekend.
Oh yeah, I'm taking Monday off too!
This reminds of a conversation that I had in my class last night. People go through such a charade to make themselves feel busy. Its sad,and that sadness rings through here. Your description is vivid and somehow matter-of-fact at the same time and the, but the despair rings through. I like this in your writing. This kind of blend of poetry and prose is awesome.
Post a Comment