the chime on the door jingles
and a short, bald man
in an orange and red robe
glides in like a specter.
i spy him ordering a small tea
and sitting down at a table.
giving him no particular mind,
i return to my magazine.
out of the corner of my eye
i sneak a glance and see him,
smelling it ever so lightly
and taking the briefest of sips.
by the time i finished reading
nearly an hour later, he'd finished.
still he sat, alone,
in serene contemplation.
"what a waste of an hour", i thought
as i stepped outside to the sting of cold air
and abrupt realization that i'd already forgotten
what i read in my meaningless rag.
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