A SMALL TOWN CAFE

I with my book in a desolate cafe
The redolence of fresh ground coffee swims in the air
I find myself dreaming I'm sitting in the middle of a field in Colombia

A very careless man casually walks through the door
Uncombed hair
A noticeable sweaty t-shirt as if he wiped his face on it several times
Sweat bleeds out from his armpits

His eyes bulged out and swollen
His eyes ill-tempered and heavy
Hesitant, as he orders a cup of coffee
Combing the side of his black hair back with his hand

Then

Takes his cup of coffee
Negligently walks over to sit down on a bench in a quiet cubicle
Far away from civilization

There is a glaze that veils his eyes
His right-hand shakes as he attempts to take a drink,
the cup taps the saucer echoing across the room,
then to his mouth

Trying to keep my business within sensible limits

But this man screams out his story
How can I stay discreet
I then could not keep from staring

Reluctantly, he raised his head up to give me his attention
My heart is in my eyes
My throat is in my tummy
In a split second his attention was gone

Swiftly, he began to write diligently into a tattered notebook

A note of suicide?

Is he leaving his wife?

Is it easier when words are written down?