Still water runs deep

There's a poem I need to write, that I haven't written and somehow keep resisting writing. This isn't that poem, this is the poem I wrote to keep from writing that poem.

[Untitled]

Today too, I will sip
my cup of Earl Grey,
eyes closed
and half-smiling

and study the face
of the woman narrating
the highlights of a game
whose ending I already suspect.

I'll examine the back
of this elderly gentleman's hand
and that guy's tattoos,
looking for a woman's name.

Expound on
LeBron's lack
of a mid-range game
or Kobe's unwillingness
to give up the rock

wonder aloud about
the waitress' marital staus
then hum a few bars
of the latest hit tune

as though my heart isn't
the last leaf on a branch
fluttering in the brisk breeze
of your passing.