Old Man in a Cafe

The cafe is empty except for me
And an old man stirring his coffee
At a table in the corner.
I've been watching him all afternoon.
He has been sitting, one long leg
Crossed over the other, staring intently into space,
His impressive brow furrowed,
His broad mouth in a grimace,
One large, hair-covered hand resting
On his knee, all these long hours,
His only movement being the slow,
Methodical stirring of his coffee
With the small metal spoon in his hand.
Whatever is floating around in this man's skull,
It is not lukewarm coffee,
But he continues to stir it,
Till he is ready to drink.