Sunday evenings at the coffee shop,
on an off-road from the downtown square,
a haven for the anonymous, and lingering ghosts,
a pool of stale air and lights buzzing like moths.

I like to spend these nights,
sitting across from an empty seat,
elbows resting on a naked table,
hospital clean if you exclude
the rim stain from my coffee cup.

I lower my eyes as strangers flicker past,
avoiding conversation is key.

And all I need is to hear their voices
muffle into everything else:
the shrieking car alarm, the bubbling espresso machine, the drunken university students,
clamour folding into one,
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz -

My internal film, a soundtrack:
segments of footsteps flickering
with the traffic,
while I piece strips
of life together, content
to sit alone in this coffee shop,
poised like a loaded gun
within a two foot range of my target -waiting.