The Beard Man'll getcha

Beard man nods his head a lot. As if each forward-back motion is one crank of the pliers loosening the bolts in his neck. He’s chill, man. With his beard rubberbanded three times. Two sections and a puff of a tail. And you rest your elbows on the table, palms kissing, fingers to the ceiling. God in a coffee shop. One bead in your rosary’s got more faith than me. Pray for me, beard man. I’ve done an awful thing. No one knows, but I can tell that you do. You keep looking over at me. What have your pocketed eyes seen? Tell me a story with a beginning and an open-ended moral. So I can place myself inside it like your story is my story, like your words are my words and I’ve lived once. Good God! To have lived once. My mind is dirty as this chai and you could think of a far better simile.