He combed his hands through his gray hair and put his faded black ball cap back on.
His scrap memo pad in hand he came into the cafe with enough for a coffee.
Took a table in earshot of several talkative tables sure to supply good material.
In a colorful world of debate and opinions, he was gray scale and unnoticed.
The characters fill the place each sporting a short story of their own
An angel playing the devil’s fiddle, the local poet on the griddle.
The hipster clearing last night’s haze, a handicapped old fart on a bass.
The clutter of words filled the air offering hope for grace of the pen.
An hour with the same cup, his paper an unloaded gun, he shifted.
Not a word of hello, brought none of goodbye as he pushed the glass door.
The river town was in it’s Sunday’s best, and the streets were sparse
He flipped up his collar, zipped his jacket, stared down and walked ahead.
Tracking the path of last night pub crawl is a not one for a weak stomach
But the daylight brings a harvest of the dropped memories and change.
The drunken words still hang stale in the air, the laughter, the slander
This morning someone awoke to a lifetime of regrets, he picked up a quarter.
The river is quiet as he sits on the rod iron bench seat and stares forward
Life behind him keeps moving, a runner huffing, a mother exclaiming
Two lovers arguing over another’s cheating words during a pub crawl
The sun will set earlier, the streets empty; he’ll head for his home again.
by Dave Schipper (c) 2017 Rose Riversongs
