An old man at a coffee shop

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An old man sat at a coffee shop

by a long table in Milwaukee.

A bagel and a cup of coffee

would keep him company.  

 

Every Sunday,

he’d occupy the same chair.

He’d draw a stroke here.

A stroke there.

 

Lakes from his memory.

He’d sketch them, keenly.

 

One Sunday, I sat beside him

I scribbled on my scribbling pad.

And he nodded,

lifting his hat.

 

Since then, we’d sit together every Sunday morning

Drawing and writing, in silence, till evening

And we’d head our own way.

Only to meet the next Sunday.

 

 

 

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