Outside the Coffee Shop

Outside the coffee shop,

A lady sits, pen in hand,

Working through a crossword puzzle,

In her daily paper,

She occasionally breaks for nicotine,

To flick ash, or take a slow sip of latte.

 

She is clothed in thrift shop hand-me-downs,

A dowdy mix of ill-matched threads,

Her hair is long, dull-grey,

She is alone.

 

You can find her most days in the self-same posture,

Passing regular sideways glances at adjacent tables,

Eavesdropping intently,

Until finally, at last, as always,

She finds her moment to cut in.

 

She is alone,

Seldom lonely.

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