Sunday morning coffee shop,
there, sitting in front of this bombshell blond -
skimpy shorts, skimpy shirt, flip-flops
with some sort of plastic shiny flower
between her toes, what some may consider
drop-dead gorgeous kind of woman -
face-to-face, an older man -
much older - white hair, wrinkly skin,
those funny liver marks on his forehead,
khaki trousers, button-up shirt, brown shoes,
typical older attire -
sitting at a small pine table
placed in the window where the sun shines through
on one of those occasions where the light
lights the dust flying all about us all the time
often unnoticed, noticing now
they’re holding hands, eye-locked
for what seems like forever, speaking softly, gently
to each other, where the only thought joining
the dust colonies floating in the shop
is that hope that that old man
is her father.
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