A man sinks into a simple green armchair
and watches a restaurant closing down:
 

Wind is knocking on the entrance door
and is denied like any other regular.

A young woman whose hair seems to try and leave the place before her
is singing to herself while counting silver coins.

Running a finger on the wooden tables you can trace conversations

that penetrated deep into them, like the tastes of an old pot.
 

The man in the corner imagines
it is the poets’ armchair.