Flâneur

Remember the broody flâneur,
He sits at the corner table,
twirling a pencil worn out by non-use,
Never finishing his fourth coffee,
Almost a little bored,
Waiting for the world to say something.

Remember the feline flâneur,
He skulks about as if skulking were a habit,
The hint of a hollow smile
lurking in his mud-brown eyes.
Watch him as he shuffles in his seat
to hide the edges of a story spilling from his table.

Remember the wispy flâneur,
As he puts out his cigarette.
He laughs for the grief of Orpheus,
And he weeps for the joy of rain.
He paints despite the death of colour,
And he writes despite himself.

Remember the haughty flâneur,
As he leaves behind a trail of wretched mystery.
His half-finished poems vanish after him,
His paintings never see the light of day,
And all that is left of him
Are the cold dregs of his vanity
In a tired coffee cup.