The old man in the window seat

is setting quietly to his routine,

folding up the sleeves

of his Oxford shirt inch by inch

until the sun falls across his bare arms

 

then with just a smile

he signals to the waitress and waits

watching the hushed street

after the morning rush:

a mother with a pram,

a homeless man conferring with his dog,

a few pigeons plucking

at the fallen spring blossom.

 

He takes his glasses from his breast pocket

cleans each lens carefully with his napkin

and opens his morning paper

presses out it’s creases with his palm

sets it between his knife and fork, slowly

devours it until he leaves satisfied

knowing nothing in the world

will escape him this day.