Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

January 07, 2014

There is a Man

There is a man beside me.
I do not know what anyone
looks like and imagine I must
draw them for myself, and wonder
if blind people do this, too,
putting smoking jackets onto dry
voiced civil servants, wool onto
itchy-voiced youths? But I pride
myself on suiting strangers by
intuition into something more
deep and truth, extrapolated in this
case entirely by his arm: draped
cooly across a cafe chair nowhere
near his domain, a gable-seat by
a dim alley-way window, the reason I took
my spot beside his extra-occupational
chair: the view onto nowhere sustains
all visions, any dream. So it seems I am
sitting next to a kind of quiet Oscar,
a wild but docile, murmur-smiling beast
more civilized than merely human.
He is in tweed grey as March snow,
he is sallow-toned and sniffles, pleased
with the sound of it, and in that I'm sure
I can hear him smile. His other hand falls
again and again against his comfortably
outstretched trousered leg: again the fabric
implies richness of spirit, if not wealth.
And the man is watching me type, so
I must be here and appear a certain way
that fascinates the kind of man who sits
in two spots at a busy cafe, in the dim
corner of the room haunted by strange
un-self-aware women like me, in bright
coloured clothing, old hats and reluctant
visage. The man clears his throat softly
and I feel we are speaking now, in our
mutually shared and read body language:
we are definitely both watchers of people
from corners of eyes. We must also be
optimists because I can imagine, in spite
of everything, that he has kind eyes, narrowed
against the light and for accuracy of dream-sight,
rather than out of cunning or critique.
The man beside me is my own, myself
his; we are wrapped around each others'
hopes, and thirsty for everything we won't
ever say to each other, each time we take a sip.


Posted by delire at January 7, 2014 12:10 PM
Comments
Post a comment









Remember personal info?