Steam

The man gobbled
up a plate
of assorted snacks
as he spoke.

With his mouth
full of potatoes
still releasing steam,
he spoke of the storm
in a language
I don’t understand.

It was raining
so he didn’t seem
to mind the steam.
It gets cooler here
when it rains
like it does in most
other places
I have lived in.


He spoke of the storm
and quoted lines
from a poet
in his language.

I don’t remember
what he said
because it was raining.

The raindrops
get noisy
on the tinned roof
and the café wants
to fly in the storm
away from the cigarette
smoke we plaster
its walls with.

The man with
dry eyes
came and sat with
us there on another
day and he wiped off
the eyes drops
as if those were his tears.

But that was
quite another day.

August 12, 2009