Literature
The Old Man With Coffee
The Old Man With Coffee
By p.b. wells
the place is nothing special,
peeling blue paint,
tables scarred like bad memories,
steam limping out of chipped mugs.
I’m working on my caffeine habit
and my talent for minding my own business
when I see him.
old guy in a coat that has seen
more winters than I have good days,
hat tilted like it gave up standing straight,
hands parked on the table
like two tired animals.
he's not really looking at the coffee.
he’s looking through it,
down into whatever dark pool
waits under the cheap ceramic.
the room is full of clatter,
spoons ringing,
some loud couple laughing at nothing,
music leaking from a speaker
that should have been shot years ago,
but he hears none of it.
his eyes are somewhere else.
I try to guess where.
maybe it’s a summer night five lifetimes back,
two boys and their first illegal beer
behind a gas station,
laughing so hard the foam spills,
swearing they will be brothers
until the end of the goddamn
