Day: November 8, 2014

Condemned

Condemned for life

For the sin of not knowing

Not being capable enough

Having enough smarts or the wherewithal

To be a productive part of society

The ruling class

The go-getters, jet-setters and the like

Condemned for not being born at the right time

In water or to the right class

A castaway, a forgotten soul

Look away, and not for handouts or help

Look away from the stares

The eyes which burn through to the core

© Dicky J Loweman 2014

Coffee Shop

Deep aromas of disdain flood at me

As soon as I’m in the door

I love coffee shops, just not this particular coffee-house

Too many people in line

Most of whom, don’t know what they want

Never minding the five minutes they spent in the line

Chatting on the phone, never looking at the menu

Or those who can’t stop looking at the time

Pouting, tapping, arms folded, while exhaling in disgust

Not a single thought, as to how long this morning stop always takes

The barista looks slightly confused and less than thrilled to be here

I ordered a large black coffee

She asks if I want milk in it

I’m past this, however

I’ve paid and now I’m scanning for a seat

I would love to plant my ass in one of the overstuffed chairs

But they were claimed hours ago

And those who rise early enough to get them, won’t give them up

These are the $4.00 spending couch sitters

They always come in pairs, so there is someone to save their seat

While they get their free refill

Then there is the gentleman reading the Sunday Times

On a Thursday

The same gentleman who, when relinquishing his seat

Strolls to the shitter, with his entire paper tucked under his arm

Never for a minute considering there is but one unisex bathroom

Or that any of us coffee-swilling folk may also need it

I assume his private commode lacks the decor

Or the phone numbers of whom to call for a good time

I return to the line

I don’t need any more coffee, but want to slow the line

I have just a little more time to kill

I wait for the man to come out of the restroom

I strike up a quick conversation

I find a meaningless point to his unharmonious rasp

I tell him I have something which may interest him

We exchange phone numbers

I thoughtfully give him the number of my vicious neighbor

Who hates his time wasted by wrong numbers

Last thing before I leave

I go into the foul-smelling, unisex bathroom

I write his number on the wall

With instructions to call for a good time

© Dicky J Loweman 2014