Thursday, May 17, 2012
The opaque glass of a closed shop window
Acts as camouflage behind his dark shirt,
The crisp, ironed edges of which belie
The truth of his softness underneath it.
He is cold. The hair of his hand stands up,
Exposed fingers clasping a plastic bag,
And he shivers away the second last
Saturday night of August, standing there.
This waiting game, prelude to the first act,
Ends as a familiar car pulls close and
He pretends the lift does nothing to raise
His spirits, the cold of the night hidden
By his cool exterior and denied
With half a smile. He warms up as they drive.
Later, under lights, he is the centre
Of attention, mysterious, with one
Eye hidden by a sharply tilted hat,
Sparkling ear-ring and bright white tie, flashing
A smile at anyone who meets his gaze,
Teasing them by dancing from their contact.
With some comfort from this costume, he can
Fool watching eyes with an illusion of
Self-confidence, almost convince himself
That all is well, that it will be okay...