The Ponderings of an Introvert

Sitting in the same old café
With a coffee on the table
Feeling unsure once again
How would others label him
And his odd manner?
 
In pondering he absent- mindedly
Zoned out.  Thinking.  Staring
Worrying about things
 
He came to, realising
He was staring into the face
Of a pretty young lady:
He looked away quickly
 
Not meaning to stare
“Pervert”- she probably thought.
He took a sip of coffee, resigned
 
To always being an introvert
Who would accidentally
Rub people up to wrong way
With his obsessions and preoccupations
What he thought and then would say.
 
The café was getting busier;
He could feel himself stimming
Once more-
Tapping with both feet
Upon the tiled floor:
 
A comforting habit though
He sometimes wondered
If this drew attention-
An oddity which people
Were perhaps too polite to mention.
 
He was on his own there,
He wondered to what measure
This might mean he was selfish:
Not contributing to others’ pleasure.
 
He finished his coffee
And went to pay the bill
The manager, Mr Wiltshire was there
Did Mr Wiltshire like him?
He really couldn’t tell.
 
“Oh it’s HIM again”
Was perhaps what he thought
“He has a table to himself
And sits there lost in thought”.
 
He paid the bill
And left a tip
And headed out the door
The café was busy by now
 
But he left society behind once more.
 
MDC