Coffee With Jim

The sweat glistens from the sun on my poorly shaved gems Lorie Line whispers her song across the piano barely smoldering the sound of traffic and Friday afternoon conversations Jim Harrison freshly at my fingertips I desire to take a spin on the apparatus parked illegally near the two hour lampost I have a feeling people would notice A weathered man walks by muttering inaudible salutations The tree across the way looks out of place He belongs on an island in a sea of wildflowers Shading two lovers as they picnic in secret Yet here he sits in his concrete prison Shading the apparatus on the two hour pole