At Cafe Kopi

Here listening. To Amusement Parks on Fire. At Cafe Kopi. Wondering about the effect of music on my writing. On my mood in general. On what’s to follow if you stay. I let it begin. Anyway.

In a corner space. Spaced. Calm here today. But there is a woman sitting with a man a few moments away. She is crying. Trying to brush aside tears. An interpretation of years. I make eye contact. Try my best to express that her sad way is okay. Sometimes we cry.

There through painted glass some traffic beside me. Speaks to me. And I wonder about people. I watch. I can’t be the only mess on wheels. And apparently I’m not. But so much do we feign. In suits pressed tight. Coffees in hand. Strangers in this odd land. So thrown.

And then a child. A little boy, I think. Hard to tell at that age. Maybe two. Walks into my space. Placed. Smiles a child’s innocent smile. Mother watches from a distance. I wave to both. And I find that a child can break a spell. If only for a moment.

“Bring Bill Clinton back,” APOF now begs. And if I stop to listen. A gift has come. A rush of synapses firing. A perfect unison. Expresses the idea of my place. Misplaced.

And the mother. She reins in the child. Sees me with a smile. Fades her way out the door. Blends into memory. A separate eternity. A few moments away. I let it end.

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