It's Saturday morning
I'm here in
Saffron's cafe
writing poems,
waiting for
a bus
I'm sipping my
Vietnamese latte
and then, eats
my mango tart
I'm still looking
at the
old photographs
of this cafe
And I stare
to his portrait,
an impressionistic painting
It's vintage, they say
But I still remember
the poetry within
that old portrait
of him
It's going to...