No One Looks at Old Men

I sit in my coffee shop,
day after day,
moving the spoon to catch the white streak
the overhead light swirls in my cup.
Sit and watch
no watching.

Maybe I could change that?
Light up the gray faces
on the counter stools.

Next Monday I will wear shoes that don't match,
maybe a tennie and a boot.
Tuesday, a pink polka dot tie, 
with my Purple Heart pinned on, outside my coat.
A large, orange comb in my left over hair, Wednesday.
Thursday, the rainbow bandanna
my only daughter gifted me long ago. 
On the first day of the weekend,
my teeth in a glass on the table.
But that would not be nice to the young waitress
who wears the watermelon uniform. 
She doesn't look at me
when she always smiles,
but she is very careful with my cup,
filling even when it is almost full.

Then, Saturday, my old, rusted service revolver.
Just set it in on the table
in full view.
Would the cook notice
as he does when I sit too long?

I don't come here on Sundays
because it's closed.

Published in Verse Wrights