goes
the conversation
over coffee
beneath the awing
as rain falls.
the yawn,
the sigh, the rubbing of
eyes.
what is there to say,
that hasn't been
said?
what wisdom can one
depart
in these times
that isn't cliche?
could anyone see this
coming,
who knew, not me,
not the three wise men,
not even our
barista, our guru,
not even he knew.
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