Kyle Says: A Poem

23 Nov

Writing is such a diverse art form. One can report the news objectively and then write beautiful prose. I’m lucky to be a part of such a talented community of writers.

Speaking of which, Kyle is the author of our third guest post. Also a fellow journalism student, and now, a poet. Amazing.

Old Man With a Grey Beard

A long bearded man, who is well into his seventies, sits by himself in the corner of a dimly lit coffee shop. A newspaper is laid out in front of him. His lips move as he reads the words on the page. Occasionally his voice rises to a barely noticeable volume. After a moment he catches himself and his lips stop moving.

He takes a silver flask from the pocket of his trench coat and pours amber medicine into a disposable coffee cup.

He returns the flask to his pocket.

The old man takes a heavy swig of his liquor then wipes his beard with his forearm.

Outside the fall night is cool and dark.

The old man with the long grey beard sips whiskey from a coffee cup and mouths the words of the stories he reads in the daily news, unaware that outside it’s beginning to rain.

The old man in the coffee shop, the one with the grey beard that smells of cigarettes and whiskey, at one time, long ago, wanted to be a writer. He wanted recognition. He wanted writers to be jealous of his perfect sentences and the way he would breath life into his eccentric characters, giving them weight, making them real.

The old man in the coffee shop with crumbs in his beard and alcohol on his breath, the same old man who at one time longed to write modern epics in delicate verse, this same old man with the worn, weathered trench coat, who is so obviously the living embodiment of soul-starved loneliness, is a 26-year-old boy with a green hat and a reluctance to shave.


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