Inside the coffeehouse, standing with hands on his bike,
a white racer, not new—there’s tape on the saddle,
as if on the verge of departure, but making
no perceptible movement toward the door,
lingering instead to converse with a friend
seated at one of the small, square tables
near the counter, with a book and a cortado,
but remaining standing himself, as if inseparable from the bike,
in dirty white joggers pushed up to his knees
and a faded black V-neck, not cut deep,
but just deep enough to reveal a hint
of chest hair along the clavicle, his face freckled
by the sun, arms marked by cycling scrapes,
and his brown hair, kind of messy, not badly cut,
just not fussed over, spilling out from under
a backward baseball gap, one strand drooping over his brow,
drawing attention to his eyes, and what seductive
eyes they are, flickering bright, their color shifting
from hazel to blue to grey and back again,
and I’m hoping that he’s not noticing my glances,
even though I’ve chosen a seat facing him
so that I can steal them as I work, taking sips
of coffee as an excuse to look up from my laptop,
not only his appearance attracting me
but also his posture, his demeanor, his seeming
comfort in his skin, peace with his soul,
as the light glitters in his eyes and joy escapes
when a toothy grin registers a joke,
and as I pack up to go, he’s still standing there,
with his bike, in the coffeehouse, and two weeks later,
he’s still standing there, with his bike,
in my mind, his image lodged there yet.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper
