His profile is writing slower than the tram goes.
A professional notebook, a respectful pen.
He writes and stops now and then.
He gazes out of the damp tram window.
But I swear he's seeing nothing but his past.
Actions, talks; he writes of people, of now or gone.
I can't read from here, but I so sense.
Outside, rain and grey fall and pass by fast.
I think he's writing away his solitude.
So lonely, he must be a writer.
He's experiencing a milky white blindness.
White's his focus; his rapture white.
I try to read, but what did he write?
Die, das, der? He's Swiss, Austrian, German.
It does not matter, he's but a writing man.
He reaches for one book, the tram is crowded.
I interrupt him to tell I'll write of him writing.
He smiles back and he's Wolfgang.
He just married a Portuguese woman.
His comparative literature thesis' on Saramago.
My contacts, take them, I've got to go.
Write me soon and you'll make a new friend.
That was literature, and life's the end.
