Every day,
the Sudoku man
sits alone
at a dusty splinter table
with his ruffled book of puzzles.
A stained empty coffee mug
lies next to a metal dish
stubbed with dead cigarettes.
Each one,
a faded trail of his thoughts.
I wonder
why he doesn’t tread leisurely
through the morning news,
or scatter simple poems
from his caffeine tipped reflections.
But maybe
he’s figured,
the world
is just boxes
and numbers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem