(no subject)
in a cafe which is oddly full of men,
mostly over 50.
there is one sore thumb in the group,
and surprisingly with my being female
it's not me.
in a room full of modest jackets, fleece,
sweaters, and socks pulled over cords,
he's dressed in a suit and tie, brownish grey.
he eats a muffin the way he must write a report,
and looks at almost nothing and certainly no one.
hands folded.
literally.
as in prayer.
clears his throat as if to speak but says nothing.
a shiny wristwatch with a leather band.
not even a paper to read.
clears his throat again.
but his shoes don't match his suit.
they are far too casual.
i wonder if this is his downfall, what gives him away.
maybe he saw me looking, maybe i made him uncomfortable.
he walked away with his shoes barely making a sound.