He sits in a café flicking
Bits of cake off the notebook
He has to tell her,
But she hasn’t come here yet
He has to tell her,
But he hasn’t anything to tell her
He has to tell her,
But he doesn’t even speak her language
He could learn it,
But he’d never find the right words
The right words haven’t been invented,
Still, he has to tell her
Before the coffee goes cold
She walks in to applauding smiles
As she approaches the table
He musters the words
“Sorry luv”
These words conspire
setting out to trip his tongue
of meaning and metaphor
to undermine his masculinity
and they succeed.
She looks into the strangers eyes
sweeping his wrinkles and crows feet
she just stands there BEING
a 5′ 8” vision of beauty
Losing composure he decides
that pointing is universally acceptable
“You left your headlamps on.”
Relief fills the room
She about faces
Races out the door waving
“Dzięki!”
He sits there now watching
As she fumbles for keys
and sunlight plays with her hair
The coffee was warm.
