He’s waiting for a table. On his phone. I hear him say: “One hour & Forty five minutes, so I’m Just here Burning some time.” This is repeated twice In two different conversations. I find it odd that here, In a bookstore, One would need to spend MORE time on their phone. Meanwhile The coffee guy Is pacing back and forth In the corner of my eye. Eager for the next Thirty six minutes To pass while Cyndi Lauper Cries overhead About time. Perhaps coffee guy is Caught up in circles, Confusion nothing new. Time has brought me here, A geographic relocation Due to a temporal decision. Thanks, for being open an hour later. They ALL used to be open late. For coffee. For Books. For camaraderie. Table-waiting-guy Addresses his young son “Who’s your favorite YouTuber?” Tiny human replies, “I don’t know, I guess someone who builds something.” Dad sighs as he instructs “ahhhh, ya gotta learn the name of who you like.” This is a strange thing to say to a young boy. I would prefer to hear them discuss books. And reading. But, at least they are talking? T-minus twenty three minutes Dad and his family get their Page for the restaurant and hustle off To overpriced American cuisine. The clock drags for Coffee guy Who puts up early the CLOSED sign. Immediately, Two young women Materialize for Smoothies. But our hero barista Just stands there, That little written Cardboard sign The only barrier To a sale And happiness. They turn to leave disappointed When the secure guard Approaches dressed like he works for a chicken shack.
