the café

sunset signals pause
signals pause in day
no tourists come after eight
though drunk ones pass
in the street with
skinny cats, tumbleweed, foreign coke cans

the sea. his café straddles the beach
not an exotic contemporary work of architecture but
mature, local colour
peeling white paint texture, striped awning-
his father's-
and inside, candle smoke swirls.
sometimes, mouse darts across floor.

his shirt, thin and cheap
and his too-big black trousers
and his too-long black hair
are the impression of clownish charisma.
he has no sons.

and when there is time, he can
step onto the balcony
his
and smoke, although
salty light air sometimes distracts him
germans on the beach below
fast russian speech
-or else others.

but this, it is his island.
his, it is this island.
this island, it is his.
is
it's
island.