There is an unusual personality who frequents one of the coffee houses I like to go to. His presence is always disruptive—Not just to myself, but in general. He brings a police scanner with him, sets it on the table while he drinks his coffee, and plays it very loudly so that everyone can hear from all parts of the store.
The Man with the Scanner
His face is smug, arrogant
Ghoulish and gray against the high-backed café chair
He watches rain drool down picture windows
Listens to the popping drone of a scanner
His features are fixed in a cold state of rage
Bitter malcontent gouges grooves in his skin
This seems to make sense
For one who brings a scanner to a public café
What tragedy has scarred his mind?
No-one sits near him
Avoiding his belligerent gaze
The harsh sound of his scanner
License plate numbers fight their way in
To darken this bright little café
Calls to dispatch for ID checks
Shoulder their way into the room
He is alone in this place
His only companion a little black box
Hollow voices churned in darkness
Poured like cement into the frame of his soul
