The Stranger at the Cafe

Casually, like a timid boy
making his first contact with others...
the old man leans over the counter
where he'd perched, moments ago, like a shy bird
- hesitant and uncertain -
words seemed to hover over his lips,
minutes pass, like eternity

I am waiting, watching the twist on his face
as he struggles to break the protective wall.
The wall... the block between he and I,
the words that may be misconstrued, awkward gestures -
for we are both strangers,
each in his world and that of the other.

He is hefty, muscular, like he would break the counter
with a single blow... yet he is vulnerable!
His bashed eyes, the color of the ocean tell me so.
They are distant!
Staring into a space I can't define
staring as though a stranger's world would open another door.

Then I mutter words I do not remember,
and there he speaks, the man from Copenhagen
speaks in the language any stranger speaks to another.
And his vulnerability, like his shield are bare before me.
He says he's been robbed.
And Oh! don't you know we are always robbed of something?

I almost giggle, yes, I almost do,
for how can a bully with thick muscles and hypnotic eyes be robbed?
I do not ask him, I feel his vulnerability, his lies, his despair.
I will answer your questions, old man who let himself robbed
in the broad of light....
You'll tell me we will meet again.... but I know we won't.
I give you what you want. I'll give you because tomorrow
I will sit at the counter where you are sitting
and another shall be at my place.

We only meet at the crossroads,
like strangers... and point to others the path they are seeking.
We meet at the crossroads,
like strangers... seeking a light in the darkness of our path
a light only others possess.
I am your light today, the voice that tells you where you are.
Tomorrow, you will be a light for a stranger, on the crossroad.