His face is a clock with no numbers,
grey hairs cobwebbing the temples,
and eyes whitened like dry wheat
on the blue-tinted mountain.
But he's wearing a vintage tee,
and takes the chairs beside him under his wings,
like he might have buxom, mascara-for-eyes babes 30 years ago.
He pulls out a notepad
his head moves
like a river,
to the ceiling.
He is waiting and wading,
perhaps summoning his youth, the waiter,
or that invisible current of creation.