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how many times had I seen him?
alone amongst the sweet smell of the decorated cupcakes and cinnamon twists
today with a napkin
and
a pen in his shaking hand
scrawled lines... placed perfectly on the small white napkin
by a hand, still shaking... a hand that has seen almost a century of life
forming an image
a farm house
a fence
mountains
beautiful mountains
eyes drawn to those mountains
he looks up, out the window
his glassy eyes searching for something
a faint smile and the pen begins again
guided by an expert hand
filling in...
thoughts?
memories?
dreams?
want to ask for it...
the art, the napkin, the story
want to tell him it touched me
wait for him to finish
he, unaware of my presence
he folds the napkin with care
and
of course!
it becomes a gift...
perhaps
for the attractive young cashier?
his care taker?
no
again it is
a napkin
used for small crumbs
a small spot of coffee absorbed in it's pores
then stuffed into an empty cup
he drops it into the trash
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