the stories i weave.

i saw a young man sitting alone
at the table behind us. 
he was a tall, 
painfully frail man, 
bald. 
he was basking in the sun
as a lizard finds a spot 
on a rock, 
i wondered if he too, 
was regulating his 
temperature.
i imagined he might have been 
very ill 
for a large portion of his life, 
cancer, i presumed,
weaving
my story,
and who knows 
if he hadn't had a chance 
to see the sun in a long time, 
or even wondered 
if he ever would again?
yet here he was. 
legs stretched in front of him, 
his gangly arms wrapped 
loosely around 
himself. 
maybe he was giving himself 
a hug 
relieved that he 
even made it 
outside, 
weak and frail, 
but just strong enough to 
sit in the blessed sun 
once again.
getting to be normal, 
eavesdropping on the bustle of 
humanity once again, 
he looked as though  
he did not want 
to leave 
that spot 
for a 
very long 
time.