Coffee cup before him, and slanting sun
The sounds seem muted, perhaps only by how deep he is
In thought.
There is nothing but stillness, and the gentle touch of sensations
Warmth of the sun, cool of the fan,
Taste of bitter coffee and sweet fruit,
The nearby musical clink of shifting crockery.
And in the midst of this, tempest thoughts want to destroy the peace
A storm of his own making, interfering, and forcibly turning his head
To look.
Trying to pull him with it, the pit that has no bottom
The cry that has no silence.
The vision can become real at any time, it says.
He almost wishes it would, to end the suspense.
Ah there, that is the brink of the pit.
The solid ground is here, the cup warm
In his hand.
The moment his as well.
Then a voice behind, no one he could know,
Comes from the kitchen, a few words, normal, cheerful.
There is still so much to do, and such a great work it is, for
It has let him wrestle a demon, briefly over his coffee,
And emerge, tired from the battle,
Planting his umbrella like a spear on the ground as he rises.
He pays his bill and smiles good bye.
A cloud scuds across the light and drops a little rain,
But that is a small matter.
It is time to go.