groups

In The Half Day Café

A bearded man whom I had
pegged as a neurotic lone-wolf psychologist
sits head down at the restaurant table
pulls out a sheet of music
and starts silently conducting
gliding his finger
now his whole right hand in the air
the edge of his hand makes an emphatic point
and now his whole left hand enters
like a tai chi master
being 8 brocades of silk
his mouth moves wordless
and I’m lonely and full of self doubt
can’t write a poem to save the redwoods
and clean the seas
but this man is singing me alive
his hands say
yes you have roots
yes you surrender like this
Both his index fingers now dance
the giftingblessing way
raise your sails
he plays
glasses down the end of his nose
meet me here where the world works
in counter point in D7 Major
C Minor half notes
and the delight of a turkey burger
arriving on a glass plate
and now his long fingers
reach for the bun like an oboe
I watch for the slightest indentation
in the soft bread
as he puts the music aside
looking like a good boy
a joyous man
eating and knowing
harmonics fly through
him and go where they need to
where they must