In Starbucks

There is a man sitting here, in Starbucks. He was asleep when I came in, quietly over in the corner, a newspaper lay in his lap and piled, obviously read, at his feet by the gas fire. He looked like everyone else enjoying the quiet Starbucks away from the bustling street. Then I noticed his slippers, and grayed from use pants. And a carryall with thick, black tape around the corners and several holes. He woke quietly, shifting to sit up straighter. He started reading and alternating through parts of the paper. Picking them up, looking through, and settling for moment with the paper 6 inch from his face. The New York Times. A rough looking garment bag, similarly patched with tape sat under his chair. Despite his obvious lack of wealth, he seemed to fit with the aura of the room, occasionally glancing nervously about as he searched for an unread portion of the paper, squinting to see just like the other lady in the corner, the one who belatedly pulled out her reading glasses. The background noise of the room is the tapping of laptop keys and two middle aged Scandinavian men, apparently discussing business, amicably. All else is quiet. Restful. The tired man from the corner stands and moves to leave, quietly murmuring to me, “Take care.” No accent. I wonder. Lord bless that man, wherever he goes.