The Swan Poem by Christopher P. P. White

I go to that coffee shop every day.
The coffee is never made
The same way
And the girl behind the counter
Always has a different face
That varies in wrinkles, lipstick
And attractiveness.

However,
There is always one constant.

The man in the tuxedo
Who sits in silence by the patio,
Drinking the same tea:
Milky, two sugars—
Always alone.

I spoke to him once about the weather
And he seemed charming;
He reminded me of George Bailey
In colour
But with a hint of that dull grey
Running through his thoughts.

He was always humming a melody
I seem to recall from days
That existed long before
Mine;
Glen Miller I think.

In his hands,
He held a napkin that read
The name of the coffee shop.
Like a caterpillar
To a butterfly,
It became an elegant swan;
Folds in precise places
And great care in every crease.

A true work of art.
But for whom?

The man always drew the letters M and O
Under the wing of the bird.
Mary, Olivia?
Were these letters even a name?

He would leave his swan at the table—
Without fail.

I have a hundred now and I still
Don't know
Who the man with the swan is.

I haven't seen him for around three months now.
Maybe he lost the will to live
Without his swan.