I arrived first at the café,
claiming a table by the window,
watching for that familiar slouch,
that hair I once thought stylish.
He enters, scanning nervously about,
not yet comfortable in his skin,
the way I somehow learned to be,
after decades of necessary practice.
We order the same black coffee,
but he adds three sugar packets,
a sweetness I've since abandoned
for the bitter truth of things.
His eyes widen at my gray hair,
my comfortable shoes, reading glasses,
while I study his unmarked face,
the unweathered map of possibilities.
I want to warn him about Susan,
about taking that teaching job,
about wasting years chasing approval,
about his father's final summer.
Instead I ask about his poems,
and listen as he explains them,
with a passion I had forgotten,
with the certainty I've since lost.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 7th, 2025 12:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence, Doggerel Dave
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Comments3
A poem so matter of fact and everyday that speaks much deeper and delves into psychological depths. Lovely
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback brother
Interesting read meeting our younger self's, if we knew then what we know now, hopefully the passion is now remembered,really enjoyed the read
I believed that encounter - brilliantly imaginative.
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