At the Couth Buzzard on Sunday morning after the storm (a poem)

After my late morning cup of coffee…

The tables sit empty
except for this guy in one corner
(that would be me)
writing in an oversized sketchbook
with a purple pen

Sunlight peeks in
through a couple of open windows
(it’s in my eyes, but that’s okay)
A box fan in an open doorway
keeps things cool

There are signs of a breeze
left over from the storm
(nothing to do with the fan)
A little girl hops around
past the bookshelves and a bemused barista

The first signs of conversation take place
the words are not clear
but that doesn’t matter so much
Then they fade, yielding to the lone ceiling fan
and the box fan in the open doorway

The guy in the corner
(that would be me)
thinks about leaving
It seems the lights are back on
after the storm
that left the whole town in the dark

(30 August 2015)

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