The bold cupola at his summit reflects
neon lights from bulbs above, crowned
by precious thin silver hair, barely cascading
over a wide and wrinkled forehead.
Two dense detached bushy arches linger
to their original dark brown tone, only a few
white brows are longer, magnified by opaque
thick lenses of plastic orange glasses,
resting on a disproportionately big red nose,
outshining round green eyes in venous sclera.
Falling cheeks reminding sad old dogs, Dumbo
ears hearing only through pale hi-tech gadgets.
Rotten teeth, some lost along the journey,
concealed by infolded arid purple lips,
in the midst of an unshaved beard tobacco
stains, where arch crumbs hide in disguise.
The bloated stomach conveys a long lasting
faithfulness to a wife married ages before,
a ring castrating a swollen left annular
as he speaks on an archaic dumb phone.
Dressed in an azure shirt meticulously
ironed, beige corduroy trousers, a marron
jacket on his forearm, a worn out bowler hat
on the counter. I stare at his hunchback.
He stirs his coffee for much longer
than necessary in search of eye contact,
someone physical to talk to, furtively
swallowing a tablet or two gulping water.
Bringing his handkerchief to the mouth to be
proper, he drinks the boiling hot Italian brew,
with an air of surrender as drops inevitably fall
on his nice and shiny polished burgundy shoes.
[Featured painting: Old Man by Chris Modarelli, 2012]