They sit in dark suits,
the silence pressed
into their shoulders.
Around them,
cups half-drained,
water trembling
with a borrowed light—
even the sun
hesitates to intrude.
One raises his hand,
not in greeting,
but as if to measure
the air’s heaviness,
the burden of time
that does not move.
Behind them,
the chapel breathes—
hushed prayers
seep through stone,
the living speak of loss
while laughter drifts
from another table,
careless, unbroken.
This is their rhythm:
sip bitterness,
straighten ties,
hold vigil for the living
so the dead may be carried
with dignity.
But here, in the pause,
they are only men—
hands wrapped around coffee,
faces turned toward
the ordinary,
waiting with the weight
that never leaves them.