Take the tram into town and you just might meet
the man who reads the auras of the people in the street.
“Sit down beside her,” he’ll say
with a slight smile spread across his face
as he points to the beautiful brunette
with a handbag perched on her lap,
staring out the window
at the city blessed by rain.
Beyond his grey-blue eyes
and that warm and honest smile
lie pages and pages, and miles and miles
of textures and ribbons
and little nodes bent in Time.
Who knows what they hold,
whether they’re young or whether they’re old,
whether they paint pictures or tell stories,
or whether they offer nothing at all:
Somehow it seems nice to think,
whatever the case, he has something to give.
Whether it’s truth, whether they’re dreams,
or whether they’re just some hidden fantasies.
If nothing less, he made me smile
before the bell chimed and signaled my time.