Swallowing the Truth

I remember the first time I saw you
through a wide-angle lens,
the thumbnail moon-cratered grin
that appeared when two girls swayed
by with curls and rose-tipped lips
who could not resist sending you silent kisses.
I was 15.

For years I watched you from across the street
at the coffee shop where you would sit bared feet;
where men looked deep
into their cups
for answers—
sometimes, swallowed one sip at a time.

Leaning casually against my door
I watched you carefully watching others,
slouched nonchalantly in your chair
as if you had all the answers and didn’t care.
It seemed as if during the passing of years
drinking java amongst men
you swallowed more then coffee.

I wondered
how many more years would it take
for you to look-up from your cup
past the distractions that veered
between places unseen
and find my lens.