The Puzzle Poem by Phil Lucas

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.