Old Man at Chang’s
In the corner,
a solitary figure,
companionship bound in pages.
A hot and sour bite, a chilled glass frost,
where Saramago whispers terror and wonder
into willing ears.
Afternoon light dances, a soft italic touch,
on porcelain and linens,
a spotlight on the understated elegance
of a waitress\'s smile.
She approaches,
bearing simple gifts
of rice and spiced beef,
to the old man savoring solitude
at my favorite table.