The Wayward Cafe
I sat in a small wayward cafe,
the smell of coffee beans being crushing into submission
tickled at my nosterls.
The sounds of tin cans and cups
some of them being stacked and others
drop with a violent crash.
The tables all red and round
There sat the women, with their novels, tea cups and coffee mugs
sharing small talk of innocent love.
Some women quiet and others talking.
All of them drinking something.
The cool air blew through the windows,
what a mess that wind made.
Blowing papers all around
and blowing the women's hair back.
A man sat there, writing away,
with an endless cough, a tickle at his Adam's Apple.
Then again everyone had a cough.
I sat there reading poetry, writing poetry, embracing poetry
with a pen in one hand and my head in the other,
gently resting of the red round table.
I wrote of the cafe, the women, the man with the endless cough,
that shattered your ear drums everytime he put his hand to his mouth
and coughed away.
A woman who sat reading way,
drinking lemonade and sometimes
taking long glances up.
She was waiting for someone, I could tell.
I looked at her and she at me,
and we both smiled.
Then a sudden silence,
she looked away from me.
A man, who had an ego,
(Then again, doesn't every man have one)
brushed my shoulder and pushed me away.
He apologized, not sincerly.
They kissed and hugged,
I went back to writing with a frown.
They went away in love, I guess?
And I sat all alone in that
lonesome wayward cafe.
Nothing to keep me company, but smell of coffee and tea
and the laughs of the women sharing small talk,
and that one man with Earth shattering cough.
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