Man with the Hat

There was a man with a hat,
Sitting at the end of the bar.
Not too close to anyone, but not too far,
He kept his coat folded over his knee,
Like he was waiting for a reason to leave,
But he never moved.

The saxophonist played low,
Like the city whispering in a language I couldn’t know.
Smoke curled, voices murmured, glasses clinked,
Yet the man with the hat never blinked.
His eyes were shadows beneath the brim,
Like he was staring into another world within.

No one ever asked his name,
But if they did, I doubt he’d answer the same.
For some, he was a ghost from the war.
For others, just a drifter who’d seen too much
And wanted nothing more.
Some said he played the blues once,
When his hands were still young,
But the truth, like his face, was veiled
In memories spun out of rhythm and smoke.

He never sipped his drink,
Though the glass stayed full,
A reflection of the night half-empty, half-whole.
His presence was soft, almost a dream.
A figure you’d miss if you blinked too slow,
But unforgettable, like the moon’s glow
Hanging over a street you’ve long forgotten,
A place where...