Café Man

I see through steaming windows rain-pocked cars, hear their wet wheels hiss

As I cradle this tea-warmed cup.  More steam.  Push back sleeves.  Take pen; stir sugar onto page.

From unseen tables crickets’ chatter, cutlery clatter – I barely hear.

Swill hot weak tea, relish like sun-warmed, mud-sweet summer puddles.

Dead pigs fly from bacon-busy pans; damp wool halitosis pricks the scent of failure.

I wish this pen stirred magic spells, ladled fat scoops of juicy verse.