Now, without fail, each early morning
He stops inside his new cafe
Suspects to see him sans forewarning
Enjoying coffee every day.
His presence noted, Jean-Paul ambles
Towards his table, takes a gamble
That his old friend will bid him sit
And with a coffee talk a bit.
And thus does every morning go by.
Perhaps it could be just one time
Pierre won't hear the doorbell chime
And won't be there to meet his friend's eye.
It's nothingness, this absence known.
Poor Jean-Paul Sartre, all alone.
postscript
Day six of the May Sonnet Challenge. Oh my word, this form (Pushkin sonnet) was the worst! Totally messed with my head. I don't like the outcome, but if you get the reference, I love you.