There’s a man who’s wandering too close to our table
in a blue polo shirt and a faded pair of jeans.
One hand’s in his pocket or slapping his thigh,
the other pushes short drags from a blue smoke stream.
In a minute he’ll start bouncing, fist pumping in the air
or run screaming foul words through the glass-plated door;
it reminds me of that Dylan song my ex would sing to me.
The damaged sky and one hand waving free.
The waitress keeps throwing me indecent glances
whenever she sees my bruised bare shoulder.
I can’t decide if they’re because of the raw, red marks
or because she knows that those marks are from you.
You’re sitting across from me, immersed in your book,
pausing often to toss me a silly, small look.
Your finger is teasing as it traces your lips:
rough knuckles caressing the plump, tiny pits.
We hardly speak.
………..I watch your eyes.
…………………..And they devour me.
There’s a gang of indie rockers in the front corner window,
debating their important things; I think they’re smoking cloves.
I look around and see all quiet, distant faces…
each comfortable in silence in this crowded little room.
The words are getting harder, growing scrambled in my mind:
I think I’m only writing to do something with the time.
Your leg is bouncing spastic to the music in your head.
The first man takes his cigarette
………………….walks quietly away.
© Charlie Pevensie