Strange the characters that gather here
on a Sunday Morning.
The quiet, reserved and introverted,
The man, his slight body tucked into an extra-large suit in teal.
He walks in and out the double garage doors slung up in the cool summer morning
a smoke, the paper, and a rose are his accessories,
and then placed
over and over again.
Stories fill the eccentric walls
and spill out onto the sun filled patio were more gather in small groups
Conversations ebb and flow,
coffee a constant line of connection at every table.
And it is a wonder how a place like this takes its place in the biographies of these characters,
these people who gather on,
a Sunday morning in a coffee shop
with blue bottles in the sun.
and the squeak of bathroom doors, where there are no mirrors inside, as if to remind us our image is not that important, or maybe it is us, that is not that important…
That instead of individuals staring in a final act, we are all just extras filling out the background.
And here these lives, these conversations fade to create the tapestry of story woven, varied and oh so deliciously interesting and yet unknown.
Here in this heavily caffeinated paradise, lives are made, stories told, departure points reached, or missed.
And it doesn’t matter if we are something or nothing.