Thoughtless

He’ll sit there

- waiting for me -

coffee roasting over the bonfire,

the pen heavy in his hand as the

pages turn black with

incense.

And the dark through the

window shines like silver,

wishing for a crack,

a gap,

a small way in to his world

and the ways man,

yet a boy,

think of their tendency

to submit to a dream.

It seems rude to

Interrupt.

But,

with his head in his hands

I cannot decide

whether he is thought full or

thoughtless,

gasping between the plains of

keyboard text

and ink,

trying to capture the breath

he left behind.

He may be aware I am

Watching

and pretends not to know.

The shine in the glass at his side

mockery on

high,

the piqued plinth from beyond

which is only

jealous of what he

is

without it.

In the settled glow of the

night

he jumps as I enter,

and the half-light tells me that

his fear is

projected inward.