This is What Waiting is Like

i am sitting
at the Literary Café
alone beside an
electric fireplace at a
table with two
wrought iron
chairs.

i am writing
this on the back of a
page in a small
notebook, by hand, because
somehow, i don’t
think it really
matters
much.

there are
people and voices
here, too
and the green light of a neon
Rolling Rock sign
reflected on
the
table.

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