You saw him in a Brighton cafe,
sipping tea as the waves collided
with the beach. There was something
strange about the way he looked
you told me, as if he had escaped
from a film. You could see that in his
eyes, thin slivers of yellow, carefully
hidden under bug-eyed sunglasses.
You never did follow him. When I
asked why, you said you had seen your
reflection in him, curled up like a slave
trapped in a bamboo cage. And no one
was there to let it out.
