Taking myself by the forehead,
coffee stains and Rosie O’Donnell
in the corner, I look at the calendar year 2016
to see the border collie panting peacefully in the meadow.
A chair scraps against the dusted tile.
The sound bounces from high windows
into my ear drums. Earthquakes ensue.
Short shorts and cups of Joe
spinning endlessly through wordless soliloquy
how cool to be literate.
Are we not here in this sunrise cafe
while the motorcycles rave outside the glass
and the pedestrians hold hands with themselves
and the buses whine through red lights throwing shakas
to be literate?
A siren reenacts firefighting promotionals
romper by the window takes her slippers off
the newspaper is being read simultaneously at four tables
tall pants and long hair eat croissants with pinkies blazing
somebody behind me in line bought the muffin I’m eating
and Paul is looking for America.
how is there enough coffee
for all the these personalities.