There are these old men, all conversing
and gesticulating at a table;
They remind me of aging mafia.
They remind me of aging us.

One of them is our old landlord from
THE LAIR
He stopped by to see how his customers
like their coffee.
He doesn’t remember the purple-haired
fat boy in a suit (double-breasted)
from the court room.

Of course, he always used to call me Aaron.
That pissed me off

I wonder what miscreants and high society
I’ll run in to and
bring together
in the next town I plant my roots in.
Not town.
City.

I wonder what it looks like;
that mark I left on this place.