Every time I walk past it I called it the Blind Faith Cafe.
I picture you sitting up there, at a table, behind the little miniature iron fence,
on the cement, just high enough above the sidewalk to look down on everyone,
Smelling their folly
yet perched, silently, at a distance,
like a canary in a cage, crapping out all your self righteousness.
Keeping your distance from me, as if I were anathema
to your guilded lockets of longing,
you fondle your pearls while I stand in my wet golashes
daring you to move.
I have no idea how the coffee tastes at the Blind Faith Cafe,
but I imagine it's bitter and in desperate need of cream.
