Ken's Poetry

Café

Looking around I see
some faces have changed,
some gone completely,
and my tea is cold.
I never saw the man
who chalked up the menu
step down from the chair.
I have been journeying again
inside my weary head,
had conversations there,
enacted plausible plots,
felt anger and pain,
walked and run in strange places,
sat in familiar rooms,
listened to myself talking.
How long was I gone?
Did I speak or shout perhaps?
Did my face show?
Did anyone see me go?