Uncertain in November

I sat down in a seat and sought
Some comfort in its cushioned rest,
About half-way above the ground
Where people walk in by the door,
And stared at leaves through blinded glass
Against a backdrop of thick cloud,
And leaves through an open fire-door,
And extra, stacked-up, blue-backed chairs
For those who may wander in late,
The three hundred, or maybe more,
Heads and shoulders glistening hair,
While still seeking some comfort there,
And numbed my ears to “last night” chat,
To laughter and to scattered words,
To beeping phones, to squeaks from floors,
And to noises through open doors,


But found no respite in that place,
Nor comfort from places outside,
It was not right to try to hide
While failing to conceal my face.