My oldest friends.
grey skies. dead flies.
keep popping into coffee shops.
emptying overflown cups.
vanish round the next absorbing corner.
one stuck in the rut.
a patch of afternoon shadow counsels the past.
catch up. stick in the mud.
in the dust-clouds.
of too long known now years when everything is
said and done and not before when
the wall went up. the first time I
went into my own coffee shop.
sat at the table in the dark corner.
page turning the lost over in a book.