I was sitting In the corner
Of a cafe in the city
When I wondered whatsoever
Would become of all the people
With their chatter and their laughter
They threw heads back with delight
Except for this one man
With no hair and a beard
He stroked it maybe five times
Like he was mulling over
A thought – quite unaware
Of there being anyone nearby
He looked up to the ceiling
Like inspiration had flown in
Then down into his coffee
For a semblance of the truth
His fingers tapped the table
Patience present and awaiting
He took a sip from that coffee
And started over once again
Of all the people sitting
In the cafe that fine morning
It was this man – this man alone
On whom I’d fixed my concentration
He was forty – maybe more
His hands had entered middle-age
Well-dressed – yet casual and
Well looked-after I would say
And yet he seemed as lonely
As a babe in the woods
Soulful – a little sheepish
Amongst a crowd of inattention
He reminded me of a boy I’d known
In the playground he’d been gazing
Looking for a mate to share
A game designed for two
The chair across the table
It looked unloved and alone
Waiting for a someone
To come and keep it warm
The sun glistened through the windows
We were near the beach in summer
But a dark cloud was hanging over
The man with no hair and a beard
The chill wind of a winter
Was clouding all around him
He got up to put his jacket on –
His arms shivered as if cold
Would you like another;
Said the waiter reaching for his coffee
The man checked his watch and nodded
Very good; he smiled back
The man with no hair and a beard
Stood – then turned and left the cafe
His actions – they had meaning
But they made little sense to me
I stroked my beard and tapped the table
Thought-provokingly despairing
So I looked down to my coffee
For a semblance of the truth.
sensualism 