To think this might have happened

I felt the faint flutter of the fucking tram careering out on the street. I dropped into the wicker chair opposite the strange man’s, wearing off the weariness.

His clothes were large. His hair was a black battlefield, split into two fractions extending over the sides of his aft, top and forehead. The knitted dark blue sweater had a hole near his right hip; the shirt-collar poking under it was stained in the brown of coffee. His features were exemplary of the elapsing middle age of men, stretching as mountains on the face of his Earth. Thin and unkempt he was.
So much did I establish in the first five minutes of him reading some poetry. As he was flipping through the pages, my eyes rolled over more times than Frank Sinatra has, given the existence of karaoke bars and worse.
In retrospect, patience is golden only when it is wholly concealed.

Another five minutes his fingers ran through pages, whilst I stood sprawled killing off the sixth hour of my twelve-to-eight. Then he stood up.
Alas, only to take another book did he do that. Afterwards, more page-flipping ensued. I gazed out of the window. There was a pretty blonde in tight ass and respectable décolletage, looking upwards. My eyes remained intent on hers, I must admit, supposedly. She crossed the tramline and disappeared, likely into the bookstore. I don’t like to venture into saying that she must have gone where she did because of me, as my impending self-righteousness was curtly, yet pleasantly sliced through by the probably homeless man’s muttering.
A goofy grin possessed his face now, one I likened to satisfied admiration. A touch more touching that weird, this man converted the still air to fiery breath in a murmur, occasionally turning to face the setting sun. His grin never fell.

And then I said to myself, what a wonderful thing. I should write about it. Shortly, I had laid out an exaggerated narrative about how I was initially repulsed by this filthy, obliterated shadow of a man, who rose to the glory of kings when he rose, mad in his passion, to recite upon us the inspiration of art. His mutters didn’t last long though.

A colleague rose from the lower world,
“Do you need a pillow up here?”

I never retorted, merely dashing a nod towards this repulsive man who had caused me trouble. She frowned and I rose,
“Sir, this is not a library, if you would like me to direct you towards one I would be more than glad to do so, but as it is, I must ask you to leave.”

He never retorted. He left as though he left a courtroom guilty and as we descended I resented this man, who had the arrogance to ignore me. To think I actually felt endeared by his visage.
To think this might have happened!