January 21, 2014
Some day the boy, a boy no longer,
Will think of him, long dead, his grandfather.
Today they sit enveloped by my sight
In this fog of future. The old man and I
May share these thoughts of teleologic bent,
But the boy has only popcorn and contentment.
His thought lies in the future. But some day
He might remember this café,
Its stillness and the old man’s voice
Telling him things I have no need to write.
Anticipating this place in future thought,
The old man shares his presence with great art,
Each gesture so deliberate, each look
So wise, like the author of some living book,
A scribe of torah, knowing no new testament,
But hoping, praying, willing some fulfillment.