I see him in the coffee shop.
I see him with his brown overcoat,
fresh-pressed khakis and black penny loafers,
clutching an old brown briefcase like his only friend.
The frayed laces of his shoes are as
unkempt as the wild bush of his hair,
a burning bush with a ring of fire
trailing down his face, serving bloody lamb chops.
His hands are the kind that have worked
day-long under the sun
for the past fifty long, grueling years.
His fingernails permanently discolored with
the faded paint and varnish that became
the odor of his life.

His voice booms across the cafe,
still giving orders.
He asks for a cup of black Joe with extra dregs,
and downs it in one gargantuan gulp.
He barks something reminiscent of the word "thanks,"
and leaves two threadbare greenbacks on the now-barren table.
The bell dings as Oscar leaves for yet another day
of his dignified stroll down the littered walk.
He only stops to sniff and get a full whiff of life,
the alluring life of the world that engulfs him.

11/22/06 9:25-9:45pm
12/13/06 12:12-12:45 am

11/16/2008

Posted on 11/17/2008
Copyright © 2024 Eric Hinkle