He sits at a round table,

In the Broadway Café,

Broken jeans, worn for decades,

Patched more than a couple times,

Worn leather shoes, and I can see the crushed backs,

Should be tied,

But he only slips into them now.

A striped, white and green button-up shirt,

Hangs loose on his frail frame,

And his shaking hands,

Missed a button in the middle.

He’s slouched in his wooden chair,

And a beaten leather jacket,

With a blue and tan stripe running across the back shoulder,

Is draped on the chair across from him.

I have a while here.

My lemon bar only has a single bite taken out,

And you can still see the white heart in my latte.

So, I read and wait to see,

Who will fill the empty chair.

A lady in her 30’s walks in.

His daughter, I wonder?

With a young child peering around he

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