III

Coffee shops are supposed

to be an artist’s home base.

But I find the noise unbearable,

the stares of other stifling.



-Well, maybe if you’d stop

dying your hair blue-

Mom once commented.

She has  many opinions,

I was never the son she wanted.



But -blue- is blue.

Water, skies, rain

and melancholy.

Blue feels warm

so I continue.



The coffee tastes better at home.

So why?



I was wandering one day.

I do that to get ideas

every now and then.

I saw you through

the coffee shop glass.

A rough face nestled

between bright pink and lime

advertisements.

A Christmas parade, or church fair,

I don’t know.



Your ears are guaged,

like mine.

Hair mostly short.

Black,

except for the top

which was brushed forward

and dyed almost white.



Green eyes laughing

at your co-worker,

employee, rather.

You have a mischevious

air around you,

outside of the bedroom anyway.



So attracted,

like a moth to a flame

-how appropriate the cliche-

I got sub-par coffee.



And came back for more.



I never said anything to you,

and didn’t keep regular days.

Just to watch your

easy interactions

was enough.

It felt like the sun

had broken through the fog

obscuring my vision.



I felt substantial.