Cafe Hail

Interrupted by a fast approaching storm,
Hail coming down the size of beads from
   a Mardi Gras necklace--

--fake candelabras on the walls of this
   brown cafe-still adds a bit of character,           
   most wouldn't look too closely just puff
   their cigs-and drink their bitter espresso's.

Peering through the looking glass
   above the bar
      I catch a glimpse of an older man,
          60ish, in a gray blazer w/black
              turtle neck.
I imagine this man in his prime
      sitting with a moleskin-
        poetry on his mind, and discussing
 the latest artist who has just hit the scene--
arguing his point that he has the technique, but
          not enough talent to go beyond the gallery
                where he had his show.
While picking up bits of other conversations
         that he'll write down once he's alone.
Putting his spin on the actual happenings--
Assuming the beauty of the language--rather than
   the ugliness actually portrayed.

But here, back to the now, his white beard
   probably smells of musk, and the lunch of beer
     he just had.

He speaks with a very deep tone, the
       Viennese Barry White?

I feel like I know this man from some other life,
     in some other time,
         perhaps we were best friends, or lovers,
           or I could have been his goat that he had to kill,
            to eat, to survive.  Which is why I don't
             make eye contact with him now,
               something inside me recognizes what he did, even
              though he had to, I'm not ready to forgive.

Old-timey radio sits on the shelf, you know the kind,
       with that antique radio grill cloth across the speakers. 
Dials made of black wood, its frame a faux rosewood.
Beside it is a modern stereo--so gaudy in its metallic
     plastic, and orange digital tuner,
         and buttons everywhere.

The clash of old and new--
   radio to radio-
   man to man.