I saw a tall dark haired man,

(or should I say a boy)

smoking a cigarette out in the cold

talking to a fine young ginger,

waving his hands in speech

like he meant something.


I saw him in an art gallery,

then across the road,

once in a library.


Though most days

I see him leaning against an old water fountain

with an aged book in his hand,

sometimes two,

and we greet,


but I haven't found the urge to speak.

I'm still wearied by average men

and I'm afraid he might baffle me.