An Unopened Book
Old Poets Hands
Roughly he discribes his passion.
He take turns sipping his getting cold,
cup of coffee.
the collar on his blue shirt is lifted,
on one side and the vest covering is years,
out of style.
The handwriting is so chicken scratched that,
only he could ever recite it.
Hours pass he just writes
Talks to no one but, the waitress.
Who hasn't been around in some time.
The business of the cafe,
has no effect on him.
He carries on like nothing is there.
He stops every once in a while,
to shake the pain from his hands.
But he enjoys every second,
he smiles at his words.
D. Cody Herring
Copyright ©2003 D. Cody Herring
He take turns sipping his getting cold,
cup of coffee.
the collar on his blue shirt is lifted,
on one side and the vest covering is years,
out of style.
The handwriting is so chicken scratched that,
only he could ever recite it.
Hours pass he just writes
Talks to no one but, the waitress.
Who hasn't been around in some time.
The business of the cafe,
has no effect on him.
He carries on like nothing is there.
He stops every once in a while,
to shake the pain from his hands.
But he enjoys every second,
he smiles at his words.
D. Cody Herring
Copyright ©2003 D. Cody Herring
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Old Poets Hands
Old Poets Hands