The Man

The man sits, I saw him sitting there, in his chair

I never noticed him before, across from the door, where he ponders the floor

The noise about, their talking, drinking buying

He hears not, nor is he hiding, searching, spying

He needs not your looks, your gaze, or notice,

Not for one single lying moment

His face is set, its features flint, unflinching, facing

An enemy I think, a ponderous belching thing

That bars the door, and boards the gate, where treasures inestimable, waiting, wait

For one such as he, to locate the key, and he searches, seeking, thinking, knowing,

And he finds in the floor the opaque glinting visage finding him, for their eyes have met

No delight or consolation, no uplifting conversation, can break this solemn contemplation, of the man sitting there, over there in his chair