Bitter Café Poem by Simon Freedman

An old man draws the face
of a beautiful girl
at the table next door.
He smiles from afar,
obscured by stubble
and the countless years
of hurt and devotion
that lie between.

He tells me that life
can only well up
under your tongue
for so long
until it bursts like pity,
a fountain of clean breath
and buoyant forgetting.

Outside, the rats
try to hide from the stars,
clawing down shadows
for the open heart burglary
of daylight
to show them up
for all to see.