cafe dreams

hamstrung at the bus stop, the young woman across the street is letting time lengthen her beneath the donut clouds. the bar of light is off. pastel tank top girls sprawl incognito behind bug eyed sunglasses while an obligatory, beard driven chopper growls to a stop at the sign that is red. exhaust grill grid emits a sooty sigh. red city open it says. glass paned insect ambles in my dreamy eye. what does a bug see when it looks through our windows or does it only see the surface it clings to? dead leaf dangles from the lowest arm of the youngest tree. a dirty brown tear welling among the green. the trees know always know when death is near. found sounds unlid the morning sky, ominous tones fill the bright quiet room full of melancholic elk & deer, posed in blue on the wall. a threatful day sounds promising and then, uncommitted piano, too tentative to fully enter our listening, yet reluctant to conclude, ambles around like a bug on glass it perhaps can peer through, but never penetrate, lingers like a smoker's unwanted present. across the street, where i often spend five solemn minutes waiting for a ride, a hint of waving wild meadow. you don't necessarily know the people you wait with but dream about their unpacked possibilities, sleepily shelled. what was left out was refused by the forms we knew, as containers also contain their rules. across the street, behind the careful scrub, men in black plant large umbrellas, anticipating the bright. across the street, a shaggy young man in flannel marches wearily up the gentle hill, cradling energy drinks in his arms. across the street, sprout multi-hued street mall mushroom caps: avocado, peach, & powder blue. and i think, whatever sexual being we bring is concealed or flaunted by the clothes that wear us, announced as if you have to celebrate what you are today. even sexiness is unequally distributed here. across the street, brilliant fire engine red chairs are ceremoniously brought forth by the men in black like priests carrying flames to the altar, as if the day didn't promise enough. across the street, those men in black, apparently employed to unpack all of the morning's color, busy themselves at the gaping mouth of wealth & class. her eyes were too blue and her gaze too met. her icy synth stare conditioned my late august air. it is not warm enough yet to be this cool, and i shudder. but then a storm cloud plunks down beside me still wearing a dark backpack bulging with a day full of rain. tell me, where are your opportunities for play? have you found them all and should you? hints of smoke linger in the doorway like a dog eager for its owner to resume the walk. and below my wandering mind lies a languid black spaghetti strap, lazily floating up a thick tanned shoulder which belongs to a woman who is smiling between puffs at her salt & pepper haired friend. and i remember the woman whose gaze was too met, for whom everything person was a problem. hope that's not the was she is.