That wisdom to know when to rise is caught in shades. Strong-armed into getting up slowly, to greet the light-- he holds derisively to the taffrails of one more day
There's no tabla or tabor but an ear-ringing; & that ache at the temples in cheap palliative out- doors where icy pale yellow tables are beds, not graves. A degrading gloss of plastic patio seats, too, without flaming horses!
At first glance his face rising lowers towards Styrofoam cups; nose & chin moisten. The cheeks are cracked flowerpots. If anyone sees him when he tries to go, it's welcome relief from leggy shades round him.
If ever a heavy forearm makes a start, it's a rebel angel wing of eighty or so that slowly tears him from his toast. He may even find there some bold reason for staying, with crumbs on lips & crumpled chin. "A nice day for a talk", would be enough.
But if "no one's heard me”, well, it's been quiet at least because he's wise who knows when it's time to rise.
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