Notebooks with writing,
Sitting in corners reciting.
His eyes connected,
When he least expected.
Behind the ancient white door,
He sat with his cup on the floor.
The rhythm of tourists passing,
Frantically he kept on writing.
Visually they feared his essence,
Judgment folded his luminescence.
Assumption based upon his hobo look,
While brilliance lied within that book.
He held it with guard,
Probably creating his own bard.
Obsession spurred from his vibe,
With a voice potent enough to build a tribe.
Café du Monde seemed to be his home,
For creative inspiration while he sat alone.
This old man was far from a lie,
His pain enough to make you cry.
Tomorrow another new day,
While he listens to people order a beignet.
He’ll continue to grow gray,
As another day goes away.
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