Wednesday, September 28, 2005

edit: yes

It may not be my coffeehouse, but it is my crepe place. I started a poem for my friend, Chris. I wrote this. I drank coffee and crossed my legs. Regulars got their coffee behind the counter. A tall, thin man in black, not my Johnny, a man in shades, stood swiping at flies outside the door. I ran out of flies at home, he said, so I came here. It was someone’s seventh wedding anniversary. It was someone’s daughter working at the cheese shop across the street, two daughters. A girl came in and asked if there were any more chocolate croissants, and the owner said no, but I can make one for you. And did, and didn’t remind anyone to pay, and said it was all right when a woman didn’t have enough to pay, and knew everyone, and let me sit, and let me stay, which is what I need to do, like the white-muzzled dog at my feet who sleeps under my writing desk. Stay.