The Coffee Shop
In the coffee shop, we sit here and we dream,
watching those around us pull their change,
from out their pockets as we sit here,
yes, just sitting, watching them scrawl away with fervent brashness,
not caring of the creative musings that elicit so much,
we don't care for those that stare when we are so aroused,
by the speckled sights and sounds of a rushing life,
of many cultural colors and little beauties from the sun and the Earth-
that are inbred by some Heavenly force it would seem,
to those who sit here in furious passionate marvels,
of our own world, while those around us not within,
but out our world, rush to create the harmony that makes us live.
Ahhhh, the sounds of coffee.
The sounds of a trepid little music coming to wave,
his cheerful age of the last century in waltzing past,
times from an era that whisk by as would a classic film.
Before me a man in a comfy chair,
stoicly crosses his puzzle with a pencil,
hiding in his mind behind his large spectacles,
what inner lusts he does not name enthrall him in this minute.
Beside me is an empty space,
soon to be filled up by walking inhabitants,
of various shoes that reveal the spirit that the walker
wears as he or she and both genders, clip or trod,
past the double-doors in high-heels, beneath brushing skirts,
or wet sodden pieces of leather stuck upon the feet of the poor,
before he left his house from a menial day at work to relax here.
And the voices whirling around me stir,
the inner fire as I hide myself behind my keyboard,
shifting my earl-gray tea from side to side,
as I wonder in amazement at how I can be so lithe,
in my dexterous creation of this simple portrait,
that I fear may never end for it always changes,
as the tangible change flies around this room,
the soft voice intermingles with those loud, brazen bird calls,
for the cack-cakling cackles of the loud hen near me will,
soon transpire into nothing air waves,
before the quiet voice takes that space again.
Ohhh, dear coffee shop, I love your jiggling foot before me,
of the man who would never garner my interest,
lest he was here, enlivened by your portrayal.
You make it all seem so full of magic,
and I can never thank you,
for this land in which I am no longer torpid.
The lust surely never dies.