I used to watch him every morning
at the Diner ’s shadiest corner
a book was an extension of his arms
his silence predicted a secluded man
He never looked around
so it was hard to investigate his eyes
his profile was low and shy
always submerged on his story line
His face was marked by time
his hands wrinkled by age
his fingers smooth and gentle
with a charming way of turning pages
Where did he come from?
why was he there all day?
how did he get such deep scars?
don’t we all have some?
CRV©2026
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