What To Say....

Sitting over my coffee 
On a lazy morning
I will spy on my fellow
Caffinators

I do not try to hear 
What they are saying
—Such would be rude—
Although if they speak
Loudly I might catch 
A phrase

And, if I am humored by it,
I might record it,
Wondering if I might
Some day crib it,
Offering the speaker
An unacknowledged honor,
But not a theft.

Usually I just watch,
Shoulders arms hands fingers
Shifting forward and side,
Eyebrows raised, smiles,
Frowns, an occasional
Flared set of nostrils,
Do the actions
Match the words?
Are the words
Sufficient?

What dialect in those gestures?
What accent? Which acute, which
Grave, which circumspect?

What is honest? Which is true?
Fingers pointed, hands waving,
Arms spread wide.
Grace? Charity? Love? Hope?

There is a man attending,
My daily minyan, from elsewhere, 
Here for hospital, whose prayer
Is desperate and sad, not for him, for
An important other.
He sways, his hands still, 
A shrug.  
Can the physicians help?
All I can do is
Pat him on the shoulder
Coming and going.
I’m sorry. Time to pray.