Art Gephyr


It was such a small thing.
He bent forward, cheek to cheek,
a standard European au revoir.
It seemed the logical thing to do
as he carried a stack
of empty glasses in one hand,
a dirty dish in the other.

The beard,
slightly longer than his usual style,
struck me with it's softness.
Perhaps this was yet another transformation
more subtle
than solving the anxiety of a new business
or relieving the depression of overworking.
Life's expectations, hanging.

The softness of the beard
touched me more
than the table conversation,
held me longer than the hug by the sink.
Such a small thing
walked me home,
tucked itself under my pillow
and crept into the inexplicable positive.