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There’s an old Asian man by the library
In a blue coat, with wrinkled eyes And smile lines to his liver spots. I see him on Mondays, Perked up and a little peckish, And we wave. It started as nothing, A glance as I passed, A manner survived from the South. Then, One day, Contact. Eyes meet. Easy grin. We see each other. Now, it’s almost like we’re friends. Presences passing, something familiar, something solid. One day, I fear, he won’t come out, My buddy. Every Monday I almost ask his name But my podcasts and pumping feet pull me on. That shouldn’t stop me But it does. I cannot count the cookies I’d make him If only I knew his taste. That shouldn’t stop me But it does. I think the day I dread has come. I haven’t been seen in months. I hope it’s just the cold Or a broken elevator Or a new connection. I hope he’s okay. I hope he’s basking on a beach Smile lines to his sunglasses Liver spots under a light sunburn With his top three buttons undone. And then I hope to see him again.
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May 2020
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