Working On It

Hoping for a small slow start
to the process, he turned up in any place
he thought he might find it. Slow and small
in bars, small and slow in all night restaurants;
listening to small talk for clues, watching
others taking their time with whoever
was across the table from them.

One of these days, soon, he told himself every night.
He would be ready soon enough. He’d make contact
with another. Watching people in public spaces
from his seat alone with a cup of coffee
or a glass of whisky and his imagination
and no one ever really saw him, none of them
even knew his name — not even the servers
to whom he never said a thing except to give his order
and murmur a pleasant thank you in return when it came.