He would see the older man most mornings
at the small table in the coffee shop
overlooking the street, hunched
over his New York Times, often
pen in hand on the crossword.
The baristas all knew him, if not by name,
saved the table for him be various means
until he arrived, when they would
prepare his carrot muffin and cappuccino.
He strained to see the words, his
glasses ever thicker, his smile
perpetual, always a nod if you
bothered to look casually his way.
He didn’t invite conversation, made
it clear he wanted solitude. and after
an hour, he’d fold up his paper,
bus his table, nod to the baristas
walk out onto the street and disappear
into the morning crowd, not a word said.
The coffee shop is still there
years later, the baristas are different
the tables the same, and I nod
each morning as I come in, smile
and head for my table in the corner,
my New York Times under my arm.