The guy in the cafe

This can’t be him,
the one I’ve travelled so far to meet.
This can’t be him! Geldof hair and smoker’s skin,
slack belly, wasted arms, beige illfitting trousers.

Isn’t the poet someone slickblackleathered
with clean, glossy, fingerfriendly hair,
with eyes like turquoise surf,
with Calvin Kleins under a crisp piece of denim
and boots from some Texan heaven?

Yeah, that’s him
behind the distant-blur pupils

I know… but dare I try
to touch him?

What do you think?