Saturday, February 17, 2018


Swaying to the occasional breeze,
The supple movements of the sign old
Squeak, as the rusty hinges fold and unfold.
And mark its presence
On a quiet Saturday afternoon.
The coffee shop has seen better times,
When the bell on the door chimes
Almost always bustling with people
Craving for that much needed vigor.
But on a day such as this,
When the sun is hard to miss.
And it blankets the town to the brick
With its sultry, golden fabric.
The town takes a nap,
Like a child snoozing on a mother's lap.

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