Café Man

He is tall and plain, strings of dark hair framing red-rimmed eyes,
An intrusive stone hanging by a piece of hemp around his neck.

He sits alone in the six am cafe, swirling his finger in his coffee,
Letting the light draw oily circles on the sable surface,
A drop of milk smeared at the corner of his mouth.

As if in a hurry, he scribbles away on brown napkins, his long fingers flexing and
Snapping with the rhythm of words, plucking dusty guitar strings in his head,

Remembering the forced notes of rubber tires on desert highways,
The drum of wind against palm fronds at dusk,
The cadence of her breath, always resolving to a new place,
A descant of days soaring overhead.

And for the first time, he allows his heavy head to drop to the table,
A resounding chord filling the room, followed by the longest rest.

The cashier looks up and shakes her coffee hair, foam on her lips,
As he pulls his thin arms into an old olive sweater and steps out into the rain.