Description
After leaving the bar,
Through the window,
I looked at the place
Where I had just been sitting.
I had left my cigarette pack
On the table.
On the chair,
Just like me,
My emptiness sits.
One hand on the forehead,
Just like mine.
But—
Is it a little more sorrowful?
Even while sitting,
Does it make its hunch show
A little more?
Does it resemble
My father a little more?
A year older than my father,
And the wind,
Like at a ceremony,
Keeps tugging
At my raincoat.