Pretending to be wandering
a gaze pierces through me
stabbing spades several times
I sense a purpose ignoring reason.
Is there something on my face?
On my nose a coffee stain?
Am I too shabby for his tie?
Does my demise offend his suit?
My demure flip-flops his polished shoes?
Or maybe I, merely remind him
of someone else perhaps a friend,
he looks as if he’d care for one
to meet at bars a chatter and a glass
Haply even just a smile
unable to hide, lonesomeness
drowned in cologne pervading space
elegant inebriating warmth I admire
his deportment yet still wonder
why the steady gape.
Perchance a touch of nostalgia
a glimpse of a life the next to be,
a slow countdown to the end
actually staring into the void.
Yet again it’s probably only me,
just an impression for all I know
he’s conceivably thinking the same thing
after all I am glaring back quite intrigued.
Gently placing his coffee cup
onto the saucer he gives me a last
ogle paying with copper coins
two and five cents counted one by one.
Holding his hat in freckled hands
he nods and inhales
stops beside me and says,
‘Forgive me Madame I could not refrain
I am 96 but I’m not dead.’
[Featured painting: French girl bar Thomas Saliot]