Mister.

poem

Eyes greyed with words unsaid, although I talk to him.
Ambiguous with thought but he thinks it deeply.
Hands wrought with pain and age.
Living memories he sits. 
Wishing to talk. 
Killing cigarettes between his fingers. 
He takes a bitter coffee, hot and black
And listens to my complaints. 
Crinkled, the morning paper rests unread in his lap. 
Between haughty waitresses in motion he hungers for what has been.