Up some steps blocked by a folding chair, he sits 
slouched as he feigns that he does not care. His throat 
inflects to all his people who are waiting in a line. 
They should ignore his words; they're all lies, besides. 
Me, I'm unconcerned that his hand's a fist of twist-ties. 
I look away to assume some false occupation of my mind. 
I'd elaborate but it's getting late for my heart. One 
can't change the way sunlight blinds the day at its 
start. Broom and brush, empty box and rag. Our eyes meet 
as I'm pulling out the trash bag in that cafe that's as 
big as thirteen bedrooms to my mind. I'd elaborate but 
it's getting late for my heart. I wish i had the voice to 
shout out words so choice for my part, where I'd admit my 
sewing kit's got nothing inside. I'd ask him for some 
thread so I could stitch up my gutted pride. Now out 
front where the bikes are stored. I'm sitting down, 
reaching and pulling at the green cord as he walks up 
silently and asks me if i maybe know the time. I say, 
'No, but there's a clock inside.' He looks down and I 
sense this fear is worldwide. We're so far apart and yet 
still so sadly, sadly intertwined. I'd elaborate but it's 
getting late for my heart. One can't change the way 
sunlight blinds the day at its start...