After some thought, I decided to repost this today...at least I think I posted a draft of this before.
within a lonely coffee house
1967
I look out to the tables
from my place upon the stage.
One sits in the middle of the crowd,
empty
with a mug of coffee
and a stein of beer.
Odd.
The tables are a lustrous brown
a plastic like glaze
and a few chips here and there.
She sits in the corner
cup of tea in her hand.
A smile crosses that angelic face,
and I know
This is my muse.
The iPhone in my hand and I exchange a look.
“Paper is so cliché”
And I begin:
It wasn’t long ago that I was sitting on a train,
little black book in my hand
writing.
It wasn’t long ago that I looked up
up from that book
and saw it.
A pond, a blue pond
it was somewhere between Jackson
and 48th. In a place no one,
no one at all
would expect to find it.
Yet there it was.
Every day I would get a glimpse.
A puzzle,
A mosaic,
piece by precious piece it came together.
Finally, I understood.
Three years passed on that train.
Life
Death
Love
Loss
Hate
Apathy
All together.
All apart.
Yet that pond sat unchanged.
A man once asked,
How is this possible?
This isn’t how the world works.
I replied:
Correct, it isn’t.
If it is not possible,
then you change the world.
I looked up
to a filled table
with stein and mug in hand
and a single tear
flowing from
a blue pond.