Early

‘I wish I could help you better,’
I tell him,
my hands turning slow the
tea mug in front of me,
as we sit across the table
from one another.

Early morning
at the coffeeshop.

I watch him and he
watches his fingers.
A line creases in his forehead
as he does that strange arch with his
eyebrows
that turns his face into something
so striking
that I look away and tilt my tea
toward me to watch 

its dark ripples instead.
I wonder if things are
falling apart
from his point of view.
Solemn man.

His eyes change a little,
and I hope for a smile but don’t get one.
He suddenly straightens and
inhales like
he might yawn.
He holds his shoulders tight,
then drops them.
I wish I could read him better.
He begins tapping
the pad of his thumb on his mug.
“Thanks,” he says;
his eyes are crinkled at the edges, a
gentle almost-smile,
glancing briefly at
my eyes.
The look of
stormclouds in his eyes—
a painful dark—
lightningstrikes the back of my neck.
I scramble to
regain my balance.

I know
I can’t help him.
but maybe talking
here
is moving an inch in
a good direction

for him
and maybe that’s all
I’ve got.

edited from 09.2012