Of course,
I have a favourite spot,
In that little bistro
It's right by the window,
In a corner,
Precisely one ray of sunshine,
And if I sit
With my back to the crowd,
I can pretend I am
Alone.
One cup of coffee,
Filtered,
Two sugars, demerara,
Milk, a touch of cream.
Hot.
Very hot.
A chocolate croissant,
And a phone
That will not interrupt,
As Monday hustles by
Dressed in raincoats, gumboots,
Flyaway umbrellas
Most unromantic puddles
Of brown.
I can spend an hour
With my croissant,
Maybe a book,
Or pointless social networking.
I can watch
Clouds go by
In said unromantic puddles,
Just fine.
Watch you seethe,
Grit your teeth,
Such luxuries are not to be allowed,
Unless you are born
With a silver spoon,
Only then,
You can envy me,
Not hate me.
But here I am,
With my croissant,
My book (electronic),
A drag of coffee to go
One leg tucked under my bum,
On a warm, velvety armchair,
My other leg on a pouffe.
Pouffe.
How does it sound to your ears?
Pouffe, pouffe.
Much like how you disregard,
That I am here,
No thanks to you.
(This poem is dedicated to that obnoxious ex-friend who had a problem with my saying that it's okay to sit and watch the clouds go by and the bills get figured out)
