not so crazy

the small man behind you
in line at the coffee shop
is doing a jig, he's
having a conversation
with someone not there,
laughing, half singing,
responding to a voice
that only he can hear.
there is no phone, only
his feet shuffling
to some distant beat.
he's a foot behind you.
which makes you nervous
as you inch forward.
he's bothering no one,
just lost in his own
mind, reliving or inventing
his life, who's to know
these things, but
when it's his turn
to order his coffee
he says clearly in a firm
voice, grande skim
vanilla latte, no foam.
he's pulled himself
together when he needed to,
how similar we all are
at times, to him.