Marlow & Sons

Every Sunday, I consider a Scuttlebutt with my coffee...

Every Sunday I consider a Scuttlebutt with my coffee
the sandwich stuffed with soft cheese and strong capers 
and eggs stained red with beet juice

Every Sunday I think I’ll take my laptop
to write at the wobbly tables in the back
flanked by wooden walls and rotted mirrors 

Every Sunday I catch my super in the corner
sitting alone with the Times and his shot glass of espresso
white curls flying around like forgotten thoughts

But I’m not there this Sunday
The last Sunday of Scuttlebutts and espressos 
and chairs tucked beneath crooked tables

This Sunday while the red-headed barista empties the register
and covers the windows with butcher paper
I’m sitting with my grandpa, saying goodbye