George brushes away a tear,

just an old man's tear,

deftly removed,

without fanfare.

Eye contact,

may be nothing more,

than a forgotten memory,

remember.

Everyone at the counter,

wants to speak of,

renewal,

now.

Combat of the metaphor,

eager beavers,

grasping at straws,

giving that coffee one more stir.

Maybe that tear,

was the sublime touch,

of some love,

from long ago.

George has positioned himself,

at the end of the counter,

by the window,

where night goes on forever.

FrictionMan shimmies on to,

the stool right next to him,

and tries to see what is out,

there beyond the window.

But George isn't looking at the night,

he's looking at what is not,

reaching out from his coffee cup,

into some place far away.

FrictonMan remarks,

"seems like winter,

has finally loosened,

it's grip."

George finally turns,

away from the window,

and makes eye,

contact.

"You know why,

men and women,

like to dance together?"

George asks.

And then his eyes glisten,

just a little bit more,

and a wry smile,

betrays his heart.

"It's all out there,

all you need is a light,

to guide the way,

and a breeze to coax."

"Because it's,

just making love,

and that is what,

life is all about."