He sits alone at the table of the café
and seems to shrink into the chair
as if some giant vacuum is pulling his wrinkled, papery edges
in, toward some unidentifiable point in his chest.
His narrow shoulders are very
still; his hands rest like birds wings
folded gently in his lap.
After he receives his meal
he moves those painfully hollow hands
slowly, cautiously,
toward his plate, wispy colorless hair
barely covering that stretched,
spotted scalp, his face drooping with years.

As he quietly, carefully scoops his food
onto a small slice of bread
and chews it slowly (in the manner of old men)
I imagine stepping over to his table
pulling up the empty seat and
inviting his, coaxing his life story out of him
with a friendly smile
an open ear.  He may be a

Warrior in disguise, under the cover of  frailty--
or a Sailor who once conquered
and kissed
the unbridled, billowing wanton ocean
and her unpredictable curves.  Or, maybe,
he was an Artist, a Poet,
a Musician of great skill and talent.
Perhaps he has traveled the world
an Adventurer taken captive by some indigenous tribe
or was once a Celebrity of great consequence
.
or maybe he has led a quiet,
ordinary life--filled with people who came
and went,
and bills
...and loneliness. . .
stray cats
and overcast weekends.

As I dream up lifetimes for him, I know
whatever he has been or is or will
Be, I don't mind;
I only wish I had the courage to ask
to look into those disturbingly
clouded blue eyes
and be ready for whatever comes
to see a shimmer of something terrible
or beautiful
or plain.
I want to be touched by all those years
all the ugliness and sunshine he had discovered
hidden away in little gilded boxes of experience

and I want to be a box for him,
and him a box for me,
wrapped carefully in the simple newspaper of the afternoon
our lives united, temporarily
by a small square of stained wood.