I know people who write in cafés for the distraction
as though their thoughts are too shy
for eye contact
with their own brains.
I’m there for the noise too
but it’s more crooked than that
I’m there to plunder their thoughts.
I’ve always done it
tuned in to the rivers of images
pouring out of strangers
peculiar silent stories
with no beginning or end.
I can’t help it
sometimes I even try not to do it
to focus on my own poem about pirates
but suddenly I’m thinking about Michael J. Fox
and how humour makes a man sexy.
There’s no reason for me to think about Michael J. Fox
which is why I know
that girl over there is thinking about him
because she watched a Family Ties re-run this morning
or she’s writing a paper on Parkinson’s
anyways
I can’t help it
like I said.
Today the café was packed
as usual
a tide of ideas
leaking into my head
onto my page
and suddenly
jammed right up against Michael J. Fox
emerged a bloated sadness
as if the roar of the ocean
was actually
every whale
moaning together
a harrowing song
of grief.
I couldn’t be sure if it was him
but the old man in the corner
had been sitting there a long time
his coffee cold by now
untouched
which made my face pinch in that way it does
when you don’t want to cry in public
so when he got up to use the washroom
I wrote a quick note
she was crazy about you
I tucked it under his mug
and fled.