I once observed a sullen philosopher,
Sitting in the back of an unfamiliar café.
His hands twisted and wrested
The fumes from his stirring brain.
And he ate alone, always ate alone,
Ate and drank utterly alone.
In this weird café
Where people's faces are shadowy, and there is just the
Drun-drun-drun drone of electric fans.
Approaching him, I saw he wore
A battered hat with which he masked his head
From the cigarettes and rain of silhouettes.
His suit was blue; it matched his mood,
He shook his head at me without looking and muttered:
"It has been done before,
It has all been said and done before."
I left by the back door.

And up against a pillar, a woman trying to be a girl,
Trapped by scrunched newspaper and examining her
Nicotine-coloured nails.
She was alone, the gas-lamps her lovers,
And the desolate street her confidant.
I noted the pigeons,
And the hole in her tights.
The paving slabs seemed to rise up around her - I asked
For some courage.
Approaching her in the night, I saw she wore
A raincoat to shield her from the leers of passers-by.
It was black, to match this night.
She breathed mist into the darkness and smiled
With nothing-eyes:
"Got the time Sir? I'm asking you
Have you got the time?"
I left her far behind.