They don’t know what he’s thinking.
He saunters down to where they work
And makes it known he wants them
In ways they can hardly understand;
It’s almost like he wants to kill them,
But he wants to love them, this strange, beautiful man.
They serve him coffee, or they stand
Behind the gift shop counter at the museum,
Where, in the giant lobby, sunlight pours in,
As the architects who designed the museum planned.
Now here he is, tall, with green eyes that look
At every display with distracted melancholic scrutiny.
Occasionally he makes conversation before purchasing a small book,
Or he will say a few words and then go away.
While having coffee in a soft, comfortable chair he writes poetry
And may talk briefly about art with those who work at the cafe.
He is polite, occasionally witty, and has long beautiful hands
But there is something impolite in the looks he gives
To the beautiful with a desire that everyone always too easily understands.
He makes the world uncomfortable, this man more beautiful than a woman.
Will he take it further? He could. But he won’t.
The women feel it as the greatest insult,
But they love the bright desire he invokes as visitor
Without situations or plans.
