He Has His Own Way

as i enter this cheap
restaurant he also sits
on the other side
of the table on one
of those dusty
rattan chairs

i take my bite
he puts his
toothpick between
his lips and leave
them there
for a while

his hands are
on the table
holding an
orange as
though it is
a cotton bud
that his fingers
play with

he looks at me
and i look at
him. I know what
he wants

any simpleton
will know what
the tongue
has been doing
on the toothpick
between his lips

i look down the
floor and then
i decide to
leave. It is not
the usual rush
hour in this
hot city far
from my
rural home

where the mountains
protrude to touch
a bulging blue cloud.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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