Mornings at Lee’s

The coffee steam, the cigarette smoke
caught in the first light
through unwashed windows

The scent of croissants, Vietnamese songs
early birds’ silence–
A day’s work awaits.

A cup, an hour and half’s writing
A dollar fifty an hour to produce
To ponder, to ferment thoughts I harbor

We sit blinded, awake
at the center of the cathedral,
dome ceilinged, white walled

To the oldsters gathered in troops
huddled in cold and smoke,
may I join you one day

To talk of bygone times
of a life well lived
of places traveled and a love won

Today I write shaded in sunlight,
ritualistic, full of hope

my feelings 2