Chanan studied Shlomit
from afar. She sat
with a man and a child,

talking, smiling at least
on the man’s part.
The child played games

on her mother’s iPod.
Chanan noted unease
in Shlomit’s features,

eyes behind spectacles
looked at the man,
more at the child,

whose tiny nimble fingers
played on.  The man laughed,
teased the child, Shlomit

eased out uncertain smiles,
hand on her coffee cup,
other hand in her lap.

Chanan took in
her sandaled feet,
the red painted toenails,

the hair pulled
into a bun.  
He watched as she

raised the cup
to her lips,
sipped,

gazed at the man,
talked.
The man, legs crossed,

hands holding
a mug of tea,
his head to one side,

seemingly to enquire,
spoke in turn.
Chanan over

his Earl Grey
watched the child
at play,

the fingers intent
on her game,
her mother beside her,

eyed her,
losing interest
in the man’s chatter,

touched
her daughter’s hand.  
Chanan sipped his tea,

looked away,
carried his images
in mind, set

a different scene,
of a different kind.
The man and child

not there,
just Shlomit
and he

setting sail
in a small ship
on a vast wild sea.