Our world, the great melting pot of ideas.

poetry ~ LJM

Well, write poetry, for God’s sake, it’s the only thing that matters.

~ E. E. Cummings

The Clock Struck Nine

He made his way to the counter
Moving slowly through the hot air
Thick as gravy

Life had shrunk him down
Age had dressed him in browns and grey

“Another tonic water please”
I poured it over extra ice
The smell of coffee. The sun blared.

I have a lot of time for the elderly-
Since they don’t have much themselves
“And two vodkas”

“On ice?”
“No thank you”
“With lemonade?”
“Just in the glass”
And the old hands stirred the tonic on its ice

I put the glass before him
Heavy hexagonal clunk
“And what table sir?”

The click of a cash draw
Hot gravy air
And looking up I saw-
through sheer speed of my glance-
The last drop of vodka
Disappear up the straw

Old hands shaking in their paper skin
Returned the straw to its tonic

In silence my heart cried
For this little man
As the clock struck nine

He handed me a lobster
Hands shaking in tweed sleeves
Green eyes looking into blue ones-
A look they’d seen before

“That’s $1.25 change”
Back through the gravy air
To his table
Redundant tonic clasped

And all Sunday I wondered what sadness
Had driven a life this way

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