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,
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.