winter skin

A group of old men gather together for breakfast and coffee each day.
The same group of men, at the same table.
They sit, with their shirts neatly buttoned and ironed or sometimes bundled in sweaters. They wear sports hats, navy hats. Some wear balding heads of hair.
The group tenses as I walk past- an intruder.
I quietly take my seat by the window,
where I can look out at the trees and the sky and let sunlight pour on to me.
I listen to the men talk.
They exchange war stories.
They exchange sea stories.
They laugh and grumble about politics and the current generation.
They reminisce on their younger days.
As I sit near them, eavesdropping in the very worst way, I wish I could sit with them.
They stay for hours and so do I. attempting to soak up their wisdom.

My soul can't be caged in bland classrooms with florescent lighting, where we read from our textbooks and discuss hum-drum topics: the weather, the heating system, social-networking arguments.
The bell will sound, the drones will rise from their desks and shuffle out the door.
Constantly losing their sanity over grade point averages, act scores, application essays.
Constantly talking of their careers and the amount of money that will be in their wallets.


I'll run away and become a pirate. I'll sail around the world.