Words from the lips of a man who prefers silence.
He replies in Yes and No- then little grunts
fill the void in conversations.
He watches while friends speak-
up to three, some days, four empty cups of black coffee
and Gold flake kings shield him, he's almost disappearing
in the corner, the far corner of a hole in the wall cafe;
one he visits day after day.

He dreams daydreams, stops and thinks...the cell phone
rings and rings and rings.
Long drawn out pauses fall and hang like mist;
it dissolves him.
He longs to be invisible; like shadows on the wall,
he is but a shadow on his bed as he watches her sleep.

He aches in breaks so plays a song, his first aid.
Content with listening...he listens to his books-
Conrad's Kurtz is omnipresent in the heart of
darkness-Marco polo and Kublai Khan, their tales
of Venice the illusion; is lively and vivid.
He pauses, but his thoughts tiptoe..to Nabokov;
peeping through the miniscule window
into the life of Sebastian Knight, where he lingers awhile.

Sometimes when he needs to feel lighter,
he goes to the Hitchhiker's guide-
snickering aloud in his rented room;
at ease, home, he is complete.

Occasionally, he feels lonely when he is out.