he's standing
near the swinging doors
looking under his watch

is he trying to examine
the moist hairs of his wrist
flattened like plants
as the tide draws back over the sea floor?

or is he looking at the pale
slightly shiny impression
left on his wrist
aligning it
with certain parts of the restaurant
making them Stonehenge
or Chichen Itza
a scrubby patch of ground
where he played ball as a child?

probably he's looking for insects
as if beneath a rock
tiny mosaic-eyed things that seem to understand
his nocturnal devotions:
pressing up against the deep-freeze
scratching at the carpet
with perfectly clean
nails