For over 1300 Sundays, I've been coming here -
an eternity of absorbing the fundamental words and actions of others.

In the back of my mind, a patient poem inspired by you awaits.
This lounge of lizards hosts a wonderful jazz trio.

The bartender greets me with a smile, "What'll it be? Maker's Mark and Coke on the rocks?"
Of course they know me.

The first poet steps up to the mic, spitting an abstract verse.
How the earth balances between sunset and death, dandelions and breath.

Rooted at their feet, the trees stand still as the wind spins on vinyl, never skipping a beat.
Poems judged, we sit on the edge of our seats to hear the slam winner.

And the abstract writer with the butterfly tattoo takes the prize.