Cold coffee

Alone, he sits in the far corner
where he can survey the whole shop.
He sees everything,
yet comprehends nothing;
he focuses not on the people or place.
Lost in thought,
trapped in feeling,
memories batter his spirit
they parade past his mind’s eye.
A legion of poor choices and bad decisions
march endlessly from his past and
define his present and
shape his future.
When he can stand to watch no more,
with an effort of will he shakes his head and
returns to the moment.
Fingers gnarled as pinon tree.
wrap around the mug before him.
The coffee has grown cold.

13 July 2011
Ghost Ranch, NM 

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Filed under National Park, Poem

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