The Cabin Chapbook


Coffee Shop 

Old men with nothing to do,
Who haven't gotten started yet...

A circle of old hot and bitter,
like some memories of youth gone by.
Reliving the past with half-remembered stories,
half-baked lies, and imagined truths only half-discovered.
Their days nothing more than fallen leaves
swept up in the cold, hard winds of time.

Remaining days of their lives measured in cups,
Cups of sorrowful lament, filled to the brim
with memories of paths not traveled,
choices never considered, chances never taken,
love never found, or lost in the haze of soft regret.

Untapped wells of experience seeping through,
to form stagnant pools of advice for youth
who don't listen, don't care, don't know or wonder
about frail words spoken in meaningful jest,
by old men whose lives don't seem to matter anymore.

Old men with nothing to do,
Finished before the day begins...

Left to compare scars of battles with life
and secrets of success never quite obtained.
Steam rising from their cups, like the spirit
of their youthful dreams, drifting off into thin air,
to mingle with the stale smoke of bridges burned.

Weathered faces hiding behind wrinkled masks,
sculptured by pain earned from hard work,
harder lessons, and hardest times.
Arguing over the bill that comes due
because they feel all their debts have
been paid in full, with interest.

The hands of the clock move more swiftly now,
speeding onward towards eternity, towards rest,
towards another world where the coffee is free,
the waitress doesn't expect a tip,
and the tables are always clean.

Old men with nothing to do,
And an eternity to finish...


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