Off Season

Looking through the plate glass window,
the cafe dishes are stacked neatly,
clean and wrapped in cellophane,
their perfection in storage for warm weather
and the tourists that come year after year,
but never in the winter.

Except perhaps for you,
meandering through the empty streets and beaches
without need for distraction or fun, happy
to examine a world at sleep, waiting
for the off season to end
and to become of use again.

About this poem. 

At times, when we have been hurt or damaged, we take a time away. There, but not as present. What, I wonder, are we waiting for? And what will tell us when the off season is done?

Tom