Bronze bust
My derrière is ensconced in the protective husk of a wicker seat at Portomaso Cafe. The eyes, having nothing better to do, lazily follow a line of vacant chairs which sit outside, silent props to the movie that plays within this coffee shop's glass walls. It's when I descry what appears to be a bronze bust appended to the back of one of the seats that the casualness of my glance fixes into the steadiness of a gaze.
As the eye lingers analytically, it transpires that there is, after all, a human form attached; one with a bronzeness of hair that is inversely proportional to his less than monumental build. If I were to be a mite less polite, I'd say his phosphorous head is an appropriate addendum to his stick-like body. Fittingly, his physique complements his cigarette addiction. Yet, despite the tranquillising effect the drug is supposed to impart, his feet tap away frenziedly, outracing by far the rapid swings of his right arm as it dutifully performs its role of fag holder-cum-conveyor.
I study his absent looks and can see that he's lost in the brume of nicotine that clouds an otherwise clear January day. We're just a few hours into another new year but I swear he must be weeks away, even months, because I catch his thoughts dawdling in the shade of a darker cloud.