The urine, wine and nicotine
announce his advent to your nose
and, looking up, you see him there,
complete with greasy, matted beard,
bespattered, slept-in overcoat
and incoherent muttering.
He attempts to take a seat
among some people drinking coffee
around the table next to yours,
transforming them, as you watch,
into an embarrassed tableau,
faces fixed at sundry points
between confusion and distress,
all conversation and gesture
frozen in medias res.
At length the owner intervenes,
discreetly easing him out
while silent patrons concentrate
intently on their cappuccino
and your inertia verifies
the going rate of good intentions.
