The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers. (delascabezas) wrote,
The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers.

  • Mood:
  • Music:
Three men sit in a coffee shop
and discuss who has the best pain meds today-
Oxycodone, man, that's what you want.
One carries a cane, one wears a
fatigue colored camo hat,
one wears about a five day old beard.
They throw back coffee as if it were
Jack Daniels in hip flasks,
nervous fingers tapping, yellow, nicotine stained-
you can see the cigarettes although they're not holding any-
big sign-NO SMOKING.
I pretend to read my book, but I'm really reading them.

At another table across the room, who is reading me?
No makeup, hair so wet it looks dark,
no companion with my coffee--just a book,
no diamond or band on the left hand.

The man with the cane looks up at the same time I do--
he doesn't return my nod, more like a twitch of the head,
so, caught spying, I toss back java as if it were
Bombay and Tonic in a tall frosted glass with lime,
and walk out the door into the day
darkening sky,
to find other books to read.
Tags: poem, writing

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