He is sitting
on a low couch
near the front
of the coffee shop.
His mustache,
mullet,
and tight Adidas shorts
could be from the eighties.
A ball cap.
A collared shirt.
Huge black leather boots.
His thick thighs
bulge between shorts
and boots.
I almost ask him
what he is reading.
Instead I peek
at the cover.
Shuggie Bain.
I imagine myself
pitied,
misunderstood,
impossible to love,
carrying a wound
beautiful enough
to hold his attention,
page after page,
between sips
of coffee.