Poetry

Madman's Cafe

Here I sit, in the coffee shop. I just do not feel like I can go back to work. I over-see the stars-the people on the streets. I would rather not do anything else at this hour. The girl who sits in front of me seems to be acting a little nervous and continues taking sips from her tea, spinning the cup around so the tea can swirl. She took a book out of a bag and never began to read. I could be impressed. I could just think she's nervous, it could have nothing to do with me too. I really don't care. The person that sits in front of me keeps sliding his finger on a tiny pad to move a pointer on some screen that seems miles away and really he seems nervous too. Just moving the mouse around opening documentsâ€”closing them. Searching the internet then not really looking at anything, but it sure does beat the feeling that you are just sitting at a coffee shop, thinking. It sure does beat looking like you do not know what you are doing or where you are at for a while. It sure does beat looking like some lunatic that may be on the verge of madness. Which is, perhaps, the very description of the third person in my view. The person whom looks like a madman or perhaps retarded, perhaps schizophrenic or under some other type of mental war. He sits rummaging for some change to by a coffee. He sits and he looks at reflections in windows and wonders what those reflections in windows are thinking about. He sits there looking at the outside wishing the world to come to him so he can be a part of it and not apart from it any longer. He just doesn't have the proper fishing pole.