There was a time when I
would steal away for an hour
and sit in the corner of my favorite
coffee shop, watching people.
There would always be students,
fidgeting in a hurry to be
somewhere for which they are late
but dare not face uncaffeinated.
There was an older man,
his white and gray hair an absurd
version of the Friars of old,
the man would always
have a book and a journal.
I thought that curious, a professor
perhaps, but I dared not interrupt him.
Now, as you have guessed, it is I
sitting in a coffee shop writing
in my journal, by hair silver
and white, bald on top
and I wonder if anyone
is reluctant to interrupt me.