sat in a cafe, next to a crazy man. I'm usually by myself and when the cafe is crowded strangers often sit with me.

So that I wouldn't have to talk, I hid behind my paper. He spoke out loud, to himself. As I read the obituaries I half listened. His long poem caught my attention. After several minutes I loosened my grip on the paper. So that I could hear him better, I closed my eyes.

It quickly became meaningless. Mad ramblings. Dull as all the rest of poetry.

I went back to my paper not noticing that he had left until I reached the end of the alphabet.

I skimmed the paper, but just a little. Too much would make me queasy, make me care. She stood by the doorway in midnight-blue, the wind forcing her dress to reveal a plump outline. She made my heart weep vows that would be meaningless by the time the sheets dried.

No, that was in another life.

Fear or her last kind act, she pretended not to see me.

The moon silently rose up behind her, framing her head in a dirty gold halo.

It didn't matter to me. All I remembered was that there was something sexy about the way booze shut her eyes. I nodded.

Into every woman's arms I went, looking for a story. After awhile I stopped looking and just go.

She came closer. One night in a drunken argument time had slapped her in the face and left.

She hesitates a minute before sitting.

"What have you been up to?"

She rubs her belly with a worn out ring.

"Living life..."

I look into her eyes. She hates me. Now its perfect. Dark corners, dead ends and witchy women, but that too had been another life. I look into her eyes and wonder what she had learned.

Her eyes, a sad child's finger painting. Love kisses the face, but thinks of the thighs.

A blind man stares into nothingness as he walks down the street in the rain.

[END]

© Wayne H. W Wolfson 2002