Watching Monday Go By.

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)