Frank

BUZZ

why I ask myself, a mantra in a monastery of addictive iterations
silver purse, red hair and Jesus in pastel and ready for sale
I looked out the glass half expecting the familiar and friendly
half expecting a face chiseled into a possibility
blue peaked and in summer plumage with sari in tow
energy coming through the door
claimed locations in a miniature world of caffeine, tattoos, and shuffled newspapers
The momentum changes as the day progresses
the chatter and sly glances of the caffeine-tenders
early morning crowd and the proud stature of employment and conformity
the disinterested regular inhabitants with their scripts, theses, grading, poetry, artwork and mental disorders.