He takes the table nearest the sunrise
at least an hour before the café opens,
waiting for caffeine or inspiration,
not caring which comes first.
He hopes there is something in the rays
to mend frayed edges,
stop his mind unravelling,
a tapestry picked at too many times.
Perhaps he’s read too many mysteries but
considers missing his flight home,
creating a new identity that
properly fits his holiday clothes.
He used to understand what home means.
These days he doesn’t feel rooted,
a patchwork of an existence,
week by week, a different rainbow theme.
He exhales, imagining his breath as
the burnt hydrocarbons of bad dreams.
The coffee arrives first, which he figures
is as good a reason to stay as any.
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