at the diner. His hair is silver, neatly combed.
His grey suit looks immaculate, a crisp handkerchief
in his chest pocket. A grandfatherly kindness emanates
from him as he eats his eggs. He is from a bygone era,
I'm thinking, as he gets up and turns toward me,
and now I see a large grease stain on his shirt,
which is partially un-tucked, and his belt appears
to be unbuckled. He staggers a bit as he stands,
bumping his chair back with his legs,
[some Billie Holiday, coming from the kitchen]
and glances at me for a second—a few seconds.
A restrained burp slips from his mouth.
He picks up the most gorgeous briefcase I have ever seen
and wields it respectfully, like a sword he has know all his life.
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