journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
It does not matter
We were sitting in the window taking coffee
at the new Starbucks in Taunton
where everything is almost brilliant, almost stylish
and contemporary to the point of tedium.
Outside the square was filled, fitfully,
with people walking in every direction.
A singular man suddenly appeared
or rather emerged, pacing to an unseen drummer,
in ordinary clothes made extraordinary by careful pressing,
his face pale and unremarkable except for a moustache,
neat as his clothes, black, square, precise,
trimmed to a Hitlerian millimetre.
"Behold the military man," I remarked.
"I missed him."
"It does not matter."
John Bailey
Somerset, April 13, 2002
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